OFKRA 


ft* 


LYLEJR. 


2  35 


THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 


OF  C1LI?.  LIBS1B?,  LOS  1BQELB 


icau  this,  his  past  self,  that  sickened  nim 


THE 

TRANSFORMATION 
OF  KRAG 

BY 

EUGENE  P.  LYLE,  JR. 

Author  of  "  The  Miasourian"  "  The 
Lone  Star,"  Etc. 

Illustrated  by  C.  B.  Falls 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1911 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING   THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE   SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  IQII,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   *  COMPANY 


COUNTRY  LIFE  PRSSS,   GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
THE  FLEDGELING 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    A  Dandy  Little  Go-Cart  for  Two 3 

II.     The  Spirit  of  the  Bronze  Mastiff 9 

III.  The  Dragon  on  the  Playground      .         .         .         .         .  17 

IV.  The  Medal  Winner 58 

V.     A  Young  Physician's  First  Adventure    ....  33 

VI.     The  Sequel  hi  the  Skillet 40 

VII.     Playing  to  Shudders 46 

VIII.     Finding  a  Man,  by  Himself. 55 

IX.    As  One  Would  Humanize  Paradise        ....  59 

X.    A  Society  Item 65 

XI.    An  Artisan  in  Circumstance 71 

PART  II 
THE  BROKEN  GIANT 

I.    The  Pearl  in  the  Basin 77 

H.     Old  Supernal 81 

III.  The  Desert  Rat 93 

IV.  The  Phantom  Mine 104 

V.    The  Aristocrat  of  the  Charnel  House     .        .        .        .  115 

VI.    Worthy  Wolf 129 

VII.    Legacies 139 

VIII.    A  Long,  Long  Job 153 

IX.     The  Lone  Oak 161 

X.    A  Miscalculation    .  170 


CONTENTS 

PART  III 
THE  TREASURE 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

The  New  Strategy         .... 

191 

II. 

The  Outcast  

207 

HL 

Ghostly  Wings       

213 

IV. 

The  Fairy  Tale  that  Was  Different 

219 

V. 

The  Mystery  of  a  Pepper-Tree 

229 

VI. 

The  Prosecuting  Witness 

241 

VII. 

God's  Machinery   

250 

VIII. 

A  Shipment  of  Ore         .... 

285 

IX. 

A  Boom  in  Buttons       .... 

270 

X. 

Naming  a  Celestial  Villa 

280 

XI. 

.        .        .        286 

xn. 

•        .        .        294 

xm. 

307 

PART  I 


THE   FLEDGELING 


CHAPTER  ONE 

A  Dandy  Little  Go-cart  for  Two 

JEANNETTE,"    said  the  boy,  ducking  his  head   to 
peer  under  the  witching  hat  of  crisp  straw  and  great 
red  roses  into  the  eyes  of  the  girl  beside  him   in 
the  street  car,  "oughtn't  there  be  a  telescope  go  with  it, 
or  something?"     He  looked  up  at  the  overhanging  brim. 

"Why?"  she  demanded  warily. 

"I  don't  know,  only  it's  so  far;  seems  like,  out  there 
beyond  the  eaves,  where  what's  left  of  the  world,  after 
you,  begins." 

"It's  a  pretty  hat,"  purred  Jeannette. 

They  were  children  —  high  school  children  —  he  twenty 
and  she  eighteen,  and  these  lilting  sallies  were  a  trying-out 
of  the  immense  universe  of  things  about  which  they  knew 
so  little  and  were  so  curious.  Taking  the  universe,  as 
epitomized  in  the  hat  feminine,  so  easily  and  humor- 
ously, somehow  made  them  feel  accustomed  and  at 
home  while  yet  only  on  the  threshold.  This  was  pre- 
paratory and  necessary,  for  they  were  seniors,  and  here 
the  month  of  May  was  on  them  already,  and  it  was  com- 
mencement week,with  all  the  rush  of  festivity  and  weighty 
matters  that  that  means.  They  were  even  now  going 
to  the  Philomathean  party  given  for  the  seniors  at  the 
home  of  Maisie  Hacklette. 

3 


4  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

There  were  yet  cable  cars  in  those  days,  and  these  two 
occupied,  as  they  did  whenever  they  could,  the  front 
seat  on  the  grip.  It  was  their  favourite.  They  were 
alone  together  up  there,  and  no  other  passenger  need  be 
seen  nor  even  exist.  The  worse  the  weather,  the  better; 
for  then  everybody  crowded  into  the  closed  trailer  behind 
and  left  them  the  more  alone.  They  did  not  mind  rush- 
ing in  the  teeth  of  icy  blizzards;  that  only  stirred  the  lofty 
combativeness  of  youth  in  them.  Nor  were  they  un- 
mindful now  of  the  caress  of  spring  on  their  temples. 
The  seat  up  front  was  their  own  private  chariot.  It  was 
a  dandy  little  go-cart  for  two,  hitched  up  tight  to  the 
stars. 

The  high  school  knew,  better  than  its  psychology 
lesson,  thait  Jeannette  Chesbro  and  Jim  Krag  were  a 
"case."  The  world  could  have  guessed  it  easily  enough, 
too,  only  to  see  the  ruddy  happiness  in  their  cheeks  as 
they  sped  past  on  the  grip's  front  seat.  Jeannette 's 
hand  was  in  Jim's  coat  pocket,  and  Jim's  hand  was  in 
the  same  pocket;  and  Jeannette 's  scarf  fluttering  between 
them  —  and  pinned  to  Jim 's  sleeve  —  left  mere  people 
waiting  at  crossings  quite  innocent  of  suspicion. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Jim  ? "  She  was  the  more 
exclamatory  because  he  was  the  heavy-going, 
heavy -worded  sort.  "What  —  why,  that  little  Maisie 
Hacklette  wanted  to  send  their  victoria  around  for 
me." 

The  boy  stiffened  a  little.  His  pride  of  a  poor  boy 
was  instantly  on  guard.  His  countenance,  at  best  a 
sallow  gray,  became  almost  sullen.  Others  had  clubbed 
together  to  take  the  girls  to  the  party  in  hacks.  He 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  5 

thought  he  detected  a  wistfulness  in  Jeannette  's  pretended 
scorn  of  the  Hacklette  victoria.  He  restively  sensed  a 
kitten-like  luxuriousness  in  Jeannette  at  times.  And  as 
for  himself,  the  sensitiveness  that  goes  with  patches  had 
never  healed. 

She  felt  the  change,  and  looked  up  at  him,  a  little 
afraid.  He  was  a  blunt-spoken  youngster,  and  his  few 
words  often  impinged  at  an  unexpected  angle.  One 
could  never  quite  tell.  She  looked  at  the  ominous  rust- 
red  deepening  on  each  cheek-bone.  She  all  but  wondered 
if  there  were  really  an  ugly  nature  lying  dormant  in  this 
boy  who  was  the  school's  best  hero.  As  with  the  rest 
of  the  school,  the  feeling  left  her  uneasy,  despite  the  gen- 
erosity that  made  his  brutal  ruggedness  of  character  not 
only  acceptable,  but  even  lovable.  She  knew  nothing  of 
his  shame  and  self -disgust  when  his  sensitive,  morbid, 
brooding  nature  got  uppermost  and  dealt  wounds,  nor 
knew  that  his  careless  generosity  was  at  bottom  a 
species  of  contempt  for  his  fellows. 

The  school  was  never  quite  sure  that  it  had  the  right 
answer  to  Jim  Krag.  He  was  plain,  square-featured,  with 
heavy  brows,  steady,  level,  gray  eyes,  and  dark  bronze 
hair  curling  short  and  tenaciously  on  what  at  sight  would 
be  called  a  stubborn  head.  He  had  the  quality  of  wearing 
well,  and  he  was  a  latent  explosion.  By  his  second  year 
the  school  was  beginning  to  discover  his  charm,  a  charm 
partaking  somewhat  of  that  of  a  man  believed  to  be  al- 
ways ready  with  a  dangerous  weapon.  And  yet,  when 
they  came  to  reflect,  his  unexpectedness  was  not  a  tan- 
gent at  all,  but  a  deep,  merciless  slash  straight  to  the 
elusive  essential  of  things.  By  his  fourth  year,  as  the 


6  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

puzzled  old  principal  himself  said,  they  were  all  glorifying 
Jimmy  Krag  as  a  surcease  of  the  Obvious. 

The  cable  car  took  the  sweep  of  a  curve,  and  Jeannette 
clutched  her  hat.  Glancing  around  to  note  if  the  roses 
were  safe,  Jim  spoke. 

"We'll  walk  back,"  he  said  succinctly. 

Walking  back  would  keep  them  longer  together, 
and  she  tried  to  believe  that  that  was  what  he 
meant.  "Won't  it  be  rather  far?"  she  murmured 
dubiously. 

"Rather,"  he  said,  "but  it'll  make  you  real  friendly  to 
street  cars." 

Jeannette  pondered  that  for  a  block  and  a  half.  "You 
goose!"  sh>  decided  at  last.  The  little  lady  knew  that 
in  their  child  world  Jim  Krag  conveyed  more  distinction 
than  did  victorias.  "  Why  "  —  she  sniffed  disdainfully  — 
"poor  Maisie  only  wanted  to  keep  me  from  coming 
with  you.  You  are  the  densest  thing  and  —  now,  stop 
frowning!" 

Yet  it  fretted  him  to  be  teased  about  the  little  first-year 
girl,  Maisie  Hacklette.  He  would  never  have  known 
her,  even,  except  that  the  girls'  society,  the  Philoma- 
theans,  had  taken  her  in,  and  he  had  met  her  at  their 
parties.  In  this  commencement  season  she  had  timidly 
offered  her  home  for  the  annual  senior  party,  and  had  been 
exalted  by  the  Philomatheans '  gracious  acceptance  of 
her  hospitality. 

"Jeannette  —  I  say,  Jeannette,"  he  demanded,  "you  're 
not  a  —  snob  —  are  you?" 

He  heard  a  gasp  of  indignation, 

"Well,  anyway,"  he  went  on,  scowling  thoughtfully, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"I  like  our  small  blow-outs  best;  that  is,  unless  we  rent 
the  dancing  academy." 

She  tried  to  catch  his  drift.  "They  are  more  exclusive," 
she  agreed. 

"No,  no,"  he  retorted.  "It's  because  then  we  don't 
know  —  most  of  us  don't  —  if  anybody  has  a  finer  home 
than  anybody  else.  But  this  big  party  business 
needs  a  big  house.  Don't  you  see,  Jeannie,  it  only 
brings  the  big  world  down  on  top  of  us,  when  we're  not 
ready  for  the  big  world  yet?"  He  knotted  his  fists. 

"When  I  am  ready,  though "  He  stopped  and 

laughed,  as  one  pretends  to  laugh  at  one's  secret 
ambitions. 

"Here's  our  street,"  said  Jeannette  hastily. 

Stepping  from  the  car  she  tucked  her  elbow 
into  his  palm,  caught  step  with  a  hop-skip,  and  gaily 
hurried  him  down  a  newly  fashionable,  maple  -  shaded 
avenue. 

"Look,  Jim,  there's  the  place,  there." 

She  pointed  to  a  lawn  festive  with  Japanese  lanterns 
in  the  twilight,  where  there  were  white  dresses  among 
the  lilac  bushes,  and  young  men,  and  now  and  then  the 
clear  note  of  laughter. 

The  residence  was  a  fretted  embroilment  known  as 
Queen  Anne.  It  was  capped  by  a  box-like  tower  which 
the  Hacklettes  mentioned  as  the  "cupola."  One  glance 
at  the  house,  and  the  passer-by  looked  hopefully  for  the 
bronze  mastiff  on  the  lawn,  and  the  passer-by  was  not  dis- 
appointed. There  was  also  the  majestic  antlered  stag; 
also  the  bronze  baby  holding  a  bronze  umbrella  over  a 
fountain  basin. 


8  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Isn't  it  a  perfectly  grand  home?"  sighed  Jeannette. 

"There'll  be  plenty  of  room,  all  right,"  said  Jim, 
"so's  everybody  can  have  a  good  time." 

Then,  as  the  dusk  under  the  maples  seemed  provided 
especially,  and  before  she  knew  it,  he  had  with  frank 
earnestness  kissed  her  beneath  the  big  hat.  "Now  you  're 
awful  mad,"  he  laughed;  "but  it's  our  senior  party,  girl, 
and  it  happens  this  once.  How  far  can  you  swing  on  my 
arm?" 

"Must  have  been  forty  feet  that  last  time,"  she  panted. 
"Oh,  let's  run;  what  if  we  are  seniors?" 


CHAPTER  TWO 

The  Spirit  of  the  Bronze  Mastiff 

THE  young  people  had  been  a  bit  subdued.  Of 
course,  a  party  usually  begins  that  way,  until 
formality  melts  into  exuberance,  but  here  at 
the  Hacklettes  there  was  a  feeling  of  being  among  stran- 
gers. No  strangers  were  actually  in  sight,  so  the  feeling 
must  be  attributed  to  the  bronze  mastiff  and  antlered 
stag,  which  coldly  ornamental  creatures  seemed  con- 
stantly to  say: 

"Oo-oo,  on  your  life  be  stiff!  Be  stiff,  for  we  are  much 
money,  oo-oo !  And  we  are  not  here  to  let  you  forget  it, 
oo-oo,  oo-oo!" 

One  longed  for  a  real  bulldog.  Then  everybody 
breathed  more  enjoyably,  for  Jim  Krag,  with 
Jeannette  Chesbro,  was  seen  entering  the  high  grilled 
gate. 

Young  men  flocked  their  way.  And  the  sprites  in 
snowy  white,  they  also  came  running  across  the  lawn, 
and  they  frankly  gathered  around  Jim  Krag,  and 
Jeannette  was  honest  at  last  in  not  regretting  the  vic- 
toria. The  sprites  were  used  to  waylaying  Jim  in  the 
school  corridors.  To  hear  what  he  might  say,  and  to 
provoke  him  to  say  it,  was  a  constant  quest  with  them. 
It  had  all  the  thrill  of  a  shock.  Yet  a  tongue  petrific 

9 


10  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

never  made  fewer  enemies.  They  felt  that  the  strength  of 
him  belonged  to  them.  Good  old  Jim  Krag  —  so  they 
thought  of  him. 

A  young  man  held  up  his  hands  for  attention.  He 
was  the  rooter  chief  of  the  athletic  fields.  "  Get  together, 
fellows!  get  together!"  he  shouted.  "Are  you  ready? 
All  right.  Let  her  go.  What,"  he  bellowed,  "lies  beyond 
the  Alps?" 

"Ital-ee,"    they    came    back  in  thunderous    unison. 

Just  here  it  is  to  be  confessed  that  Jimmy  Krag  had  the 
night  before  won  the  oratory  medal,  thereby  topping  all 
other  annual  honours  in  the  realm  of  school  land,  and  that 
his  subject  had  been:  "Beyond  the  Alps "  et  cetera.  The 
medal  itself,  precious  sheet  of  dazzling  gold  and  as  yet 
ungraven  with  the  victor's  name,  was  at  the  moment 
pinned  in  Jeannette  Chesbro  's  collar. 

The  rooter  chief  swung  his  arms  with  drum-major 
ferocity.  "Why,  oh,  why,  oh,  why  —  does  it?" 

"Oh,  please,  sir,"  they  roared  plaintively,  "we  don't 
know"  .  .  .  and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  staccato 
dialogue  for  Jim  Krag's  benefit. 

Boys  and  girls  watched  Jim  Krag's  homely  features. 
If  there  came  a  twitching  at  a  corner  of  his  mouth,  then 
they  might  expect  something.  The  corner  of  his  mouth 
twitched. 

"Say  it,  say  it!"  they  pleaded  rapturously.  "Let 
her  come,  Jim.  Crush  us.  Oh,  say  it." 

"Why  is  Ital-ee?"  He  abated  nothing  of  their  mim- 
icry. "  Ital-ee,  my  little  friends,  is  a  prize  for  a  mountain- 
climbing  stunt.  Why  are  the  Alps?  The  Alps  were 
invented  to  make  you  want  the  prize.  But  don't  ask 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  11 

me,"  he  begged  them  gently,  "  why  is  noise.  If  you  notice 
any  children  around  here,  ask  them." 

Young  ladies  tittered.  Young  gentlemen  grinned 
hopefully.  They  had  started  what  they  meant  to 
start. 

"But  why  is  an  iron  bow-wow?"  the  captain  of  the 
base-ball  team  suddenly  demanded.  Following  up  his 
inspiration  he  shrank  from  the  ornamental  mastiff  in 
feigned  panic.  "  Won 't  he  bite?  " 

Jim  Krag's  face  darkened,  the  least  unpleasantly. 
"No,"  he  half  growled.  "It's  only  another  noise.  It's 
a  sad  noise." 

This  was  what  they  needed;  namely,  Jim  Krag's  point 
of  view.  They  liked  to  have  him  do  their  hating  for  them ; 
he  could  do  it  adequately.  He  was  a  regular  Saint 
George.  He  ripped  the  vitals  out  of  bogies  and  shams 
that  were  querulous  in  the  matter  of  stiffness.  Ex- 
uberance began  to  flood  in  over  restraint.  Fairy-like 
toes  were  tingling  for  the  dance. 

"I'd  like  to  know,"  said  Herman  Muller,  a  blond  youth 
who  was  first  violin  in  the  high  school  orchestra  —  and 
while  he  said  it  he  looked  pointedly  at  the  oratorical 
trophy  clasping  Jeannette's  collar  —  "I'd  like  to  know 
if  Jim  has  gone  and  lost  his  nice,  new  medal  already. 
Anybody  around  here  happen  to  see  it?  " 

Jeannette  sniffed  and  put  her  chin  high.  With  the  glee 
of  young  savages  they  declared  that  she  was  blushing,  and 
demanded  of  Jim  if  she  wasn  't.  Jim 's  retort  was  already 
tugging  for  release  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth  when 
he  saw  Bun  Chubbuck  in  the  group,  and  the  look  on 
Bunny's  face  smote  him  oddly.  JBunny's  was  a  round, 


12  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

cherubic,  freckled,  serious  face,  with  a  lovably  cleft  chin. 
Bunny  was  staring  at  the  medal,  and  it  was  a  poignantly 
wistful  gaze.  He  had  issued  first  among  the  vanquished 
in  the  recent  battle  royal  of  oratory.  Barring  Jim  Krag 
he  would  have  won.  But  at  his  very  climax  he  had 
lost  a  word,  had  groped  for  it  miserably,  had  mired.  The 
judges  had  to  drop  him  to  second  place  on  poor  delivery. 
Bun  Chubbuck  never  afterward  forgot  that  lost 
word.  War  and  famine  and  sudden  death  might  stam- 
pede the  rest  of  the  dictionary  out  of  his  head,  but  the 
one  fatal  word  would  still  remain.  The  word  was  "super- 
nal." With  vaulting  gesture  and  stern  mien  Mr.  Chub- 
buck  had  meant  to  proclaim:  "  .  .  .  of  all  mankind, 
content,  that  supernal  goal!" 

After  the  award  Jim  had  asked  him,  consolingly: 
"For  the  love  of  Mike,  Chub,  why  didn't  you  work  off 
*  superfine'  on  them,  and  let  her  go  at  that?" 

But  just  now  Jim  could  not  stand  the  poignantly  wist- 
ful gaze.  And  yet,  in  what  was  cited  as  his  generosity, 
Jim  had  made  Bun  Chubbuck  commencement  orator. 
That  is,  he  had  declined  the  honour  for  himself,  and  pre- 
vailed on  the  class  to  give  it  to  Bunny. 

Accordingly  Jim  Krag  forgot  that  proper  retort  on  his 
lips  and  turned  abruptly  from  their  teasing;  and  then 
it  was  that  he  encountered  a  pair  of  big  blue  eyes;  and 
then  it  was  that  he  recognized  his  little  hostess,  Maisie 
Hacklette,  where  she  fluttered  timidly  on  the  edge  of  the 
group.  These  eyes,  like  Bunny's  wistful  gaze,  in  their 
turn  held  him.  They  held  him  because  he  could  not  help 
seeing  the  adoration  in  them,  the  hero-worshipping  adora- 
tion symptomatic  of  Age  Sweet  Sixteen.  There  was  dis- 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  13 

tress  in  the  blue  eyes,  too,  put  there  by  the  jest  coupling 
his  name  with  Jeannette  Chesbro  's. 

He  was  painfully  embarrassed,  and  because  of  his  em- 
barrassment he  was  resentful.  No  one  must  know  that  he 
saw;  that  would  convict  him  of  the  huge  crime,  conceit. 
He  looked  away  hurriedly,  as  though  he  had  not  seen 
her  at  all,  but  Jeannette  took  his  arm  to  escape  their 
persecutors,  and  her  pretence  was  none  other  than  that 
he  must  greet  his  hostess.  Whereupon  she  led  him  to 
Maisie  Hacklette. 

Cross  as  he  was  with  Jeannette  about  it,  he  was  vaguely 
troubled  for  another  reason.  She  was  only  a  sweet  little 
girl  of  sixteen,  and  not  of  his  mature  generation  at  all, 
but  —  well,  he  did  not  know  the  reason,  and  yet  he 
was  troubled.  Jim  Krag  was  a  boy.  He  was  unaware 
of  the  subtle  and  troubling  potency  of  adoration,  else 
there  would  have  been  nothing  vague  about  it. 

He  wondered  only  how  the  tiniest  wave  of  colour 
swept  from  her  brow,  cheeks,  and  throat,  like  the  negative 
of  a  blush. 

Jeannette  Chesbro  took  pity  —  as  the  sex  will  at  times 
—  on  her  little  sister  in  Eve  who  had  not  the  years  and 
intuitions  to  shield  her  secret.  She  put  an  arm  about 
Maisie's  waist,  and  whispered  in  Maisie 's  ear  that  she 
simply  must  have  a  chance  to  touch  a  powder  rag  to 
her  nose.  Maisie  was  instantly  all  feminine  concern  and 
hospitality.  Jeannette  really  did  have  a  presentiment 
as  to  the  tip  of  her  nose.  Jim 's  ravished  kiss  behind 
the  tree  box  had  landed  just  there. 

The  first  murmuring  of  a  guitar  drew  the  young  people 
into  the  Queen  Anne  house.  Musicians  behind  rubber 


14  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

plants  in  the  sun  parlour  tuned  themselves  into  accord, 
and  burst  forth  inspiringly  on  the  "Beautiful  Blue  Dan- 
ube." Couples  of  boys  and  girls  were  borne  away  on 
its  gentle  flow.  Jim  Krag  waited  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  until  Jeannette  joined  him  from  above,  and  he 
passed  an  arm  around  her  without  a  word,  in  the  satis- 
fying sense  of  understanding  and  comradeship.  Still, 
he  was  aware  of  Maisie  Hacklette  following  Jeannette 
down  the  stairs,  and  of  a  pair  of  big  blue  eyes  tracing 
them  through  the  maze  of  dancers. 

He  went  to  her  for  the  second  dance.  He  feared  his 
clumsiness  in  etiquette,  and  always  tried  to  check  off 
this  attention  to  hostesses  as  soon  as  possible  and  have 
it  off  his  mind.  He  had  no  idea  but  that  that  was  his 
sole  motive  now.  He  found  her  with  Bun  Chubbuck 
and  her  mother. 

"Now,  by  jinks,"  Bunny  grimly  interposed,  "there's 
nothing  doing,  Jim.  She  just  gave  it  to  me." 

"The  next  after,  then?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maisie,  barely  in  a  whisper.  It  had  come 
to  pass.  She  knew  he  must  ask  her  to  dance  if  she 
were  hostess.  She  trembled,  arguing  she  knew  not  what 
from  his  promptness. 

Mrs.  Hacklette  looked  on  with  a  sour  and  wary  smile. 
Jim  mentally  appraised  her  as  a  large  and  bony  lady  in 
yellow  satin  festooned  with  beads.  Her  lips  pursed  to 
angry  contempt  as  she  noted  Maisie 's  confusion  and  its 
cause;  for  she  in  her  turn  had  appraised  Jim,  by  his 
sleeves  worn  a  little  shiny  at  the  elbows,  by  the  tightness 
of  his  first  "cutaway"  over  his  thick  chest  and  heavy 
shoulders  and  bulging  muscles.  She  moaned  inwardly,  as 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  15 

was  her  custom,  that  this  all  came  from  sending  one's 
child  to  the  public  schools.  She  dreaded  the  coming  of 
her  lord,  when  he  should  lift  his  brows  at  the  mixed 
assembling  within  his  gates. 

The  sergeant-at-arms  of  the  class,  a  chubby  and  mirthful 
lass,  was  on  Jim's  arm  when  later  he  went  to  claim  his 
dance  with  Maisie  Hacklette.  It  did  not  occur  to  the  ser- 
geant to  release  him  merely  because  he  was  going  to  find 
another  girl.  They  were  all  communistic  that  way  as  re- 
garded Jim  Krag.  Then  the  Philomathean  president,  a 
girl  with  a  grave,  sweet  brow  and  mischievous  black  eyes, 
locked  her  arm  in  the  sergeant 's,  at  the  same  time  keeping 
her  own  partner  alongside.  Herman  Muller  and  Jeannette 
Chesbro  met  them,  and  they  wheeled  about  and  went 
along  too,  Herman  laying  a  hand  on  Jim's  shoulder  and 
Jeannette  pitching  into  the  chatter  at  the  first  open- 
ing. Maisie  was  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  waiting,  and 
thus  beheld  the  first  gentleman  of  the  realm,  at- 
tended by  his  court,  coming  to  her,  an  obscure  little 
freshman. 

"Gracious!"  exclaimed  a  girl  sitting  with  her  partner 
on  the  stairs.  "  Is  this  a  ratification  party  for  Jim  Krag, 
or  what?" 

"Anyway  it's  not  a  what,"  retorted  the  Philo 
president. 

"More  silence  in  the  gallery,"  cried  the  sergeant. 

"How  about  flowers?"  and  a  boy  hurled  a  cluster  of 
lilacs  over  the  banisters. 

"For  you,  Jeannette.     It's  a  bride's  bouquet." 

"Now  I  know,"  shrieked  the  first  girl.  "This  is  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Jim's  inaugural  ball." 


16  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Maisie  flushed,  listening,  smiling,  feeling  lost  in  it 
all,  as  one  who  didn  't  belong. 

"Don't  laugh,"  protested  Bun  Chubbuck  stoutly, 
"we  all  know  that  Jim  is  bound  to  be  governor,  and 
Jeannette  — 

"Listen  to  old  Supernal!" 

"Hear,  hear,  bless  his  old  heart!" 

"Hip,  hoo-ray  for  the  governor!" 

Very  callow,  no  doubt.  And  neither  wise  nor  witty. 
But  these  fledgelings  on  the  rim  of  the  nest  were  trying  to 
peer  into  the  future;  and  it  was  their  future,  and  the  adult 
mind  must  be  a  hateful  old  crow  indeed  that  would  croak 
at  them. 

"Governor,  eh?" 

It  was  a  man's  voice;  a  curt,  cutting  voice,  meant  for 
patronizing  good  humour. 

The  mirth  fell  to  a  hush.  The  merrymakers  turned, 
their  laughter  silenced,  and  suspense  on  their  young  faces. 
Two  men  had  come  in,  and  stood  contemplating  them 
within  the  door-way. 

"Why,  it's  papa!"  cried  Maisie,  running  to  the  elder 
of  the  two.  It  was  her  first  party  as  an  almost  grown-up 
young  lady,  and  she  wanted  him  to  see  her  triumph  in  the 
quality  of  her  guests.  She  eagerly  took  him  by  the  hand. 
"These  are  my  friends,"  she  announced.  "First,  I  want 
you  to  meet ' '  She  would  have  led  him  to  Jim  Krag. 

"Ain't  there  a  servant  in  the  house?"  he  demanded. 
"Not  one  to  take  my  hat?  Where's  your  mother?" 

Then  they  knew.  The  spirit  of  the  bronze  mastiff 
was  here. 


CHAPTER  THREE 


YET  Mr.  Hacklette  —  Mr.  F.  DeL.  Hacklette  - 
intended  no  discourtesy  to  his  daughter's 
guests.  To  make  them  a  little  uncomfortable, 
to  induce  the  proper  awed  respect  for  the  presence  of  the 
master  of  this  house,  that  was  all  that  Mr.  Hacklette 
intended.  He  was  glad  to  have  them  there,  because 
he  liked  awed  respect,  and  the  young  were  impres- 
sionable. They  fell  before  his  studied  pose  of  criticism 
of  everything  his  money  could  provide,  as  though  he  had 
always  been  used  to  the  best  and  most  expensive.  But 
guests,  and  least  of  all  the  young,  did  not  willingly  return. 
They  meant  neither  slang  nor  hyperbole  when  they  told 
themselves  there  was  altogether  too  much  agony. 

And  now  Mr.  Hacklette  had  stood  under  his  own  roof 
for  two  minutes  unseen  and  unheralded,  and  no  one  had 
flinched,  so  busy  was  everybody  with  showering  an 
ovation  on  the  half-baked,  homespun  lump  of  boy 
over  there.  Mrs.  Hacklette,  it  is  true,  was  hurrying  to 
him  to  take  his  hat  and  the  hat  of  the  young  man 
who  accompanied  him,  and  while  the  mere  children 
gazed,  he  stood  removing  his  kid  gloves,  curt  and  quiet 
and  severely  dignified.  He  was  a  middle-aged,  tailor- 
smart  type  of  business  man.  His  high-bridged  nose  had 

17 


18  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

on  a  time  suffered  a  fracture,  and  that  just  at  the  point  to 
give  the  effect  of  stern  hauteur,  forcing  him  to  focus  his 
eyes  beyond  at  a  high  level.  His  "tooth-brush "  fashion  of 
moustache  was  mixed  with  gray  bristles  and  was  cropped 
to  the  line  of  the  short  upper  lip.  He  bit  off  his  words 
much  as  he  did  a  strand  of  moustache  caught  between 
his  teeth. 

"Governor,  eh?  If  the  governor  can  wait,  May, 
suppose  you  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Sa-vedge  here,  who 
I  brought  along  to  look  in  on  your  party. " 

He  tainted  the  name  with  a  French  accent,  though 
Mr.  Savedge  himself,  the  young  man  whom  he  had 
brought  along,  did  not.  Mr.  Savedge  was  a  young 
lawyer,  rising,  and  he  was  one  of  the  Savedges.  The 
Savedges  were  an  institution  of  that  adolescent  Western 
metropolis.  They  were  often  in  the  newspapers.  Neces- 
sarily, for  they  were  a  part  of  the  news.  They  subscribed 
to  municipal  bond  issues.  Every  few  summers  they 
went  to  Atlantic  City.  Once  they  went  "abroad." 
They  were  one  of  the  nineteen  or  twenty  first  families. 
Old  Judge  Savedge,  as  solid  as  a  Roman  senator,  had 
been  on  the  school  board  for  twenty  years.  The  Savedges 
could  be  described  as  "established."  The  English  ivy 
on  their  home  had  climbed  almost  to  the  eaves.  Young 
Mr.  Savedge  had  found  favour,  which  he  valued  not  in 
the  slightest,  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Hacklette.  Mr.  Hacklette, 
who  was  in  "Real  Estate  &  Loans  "  and  obscurely  re- 
puted to  be  making  money,  had  taken  his  law  business 
to  the  Savedges,  which  also  was  not  valued  in  the  slightest. 
"Brought  along"  is  not  exact.  Mr.  Hacklette  had 
dragged  Mr.  Savedge  along.  In  Mr.  Savedge's  honour, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  19 

and  if  Mr.  Savedge  was  to  be  impressed,  Mr.  Hacklette 
needed  to  be  especially  curt  and  fault-finding. 

Maisie  gave  her  hand  to  Mr.  Savedge.  She  did  it 
much  as  an  obedient  child  who  is  called  from  play  to 
greet  an  older  guest.  Her  father  surveyed  them  both 
over  his  high,  broken  nose,  as  stern  as  a  field-marshal  on 
horseback.  Abruptly  his  teeth  snapped  on  a  ragged 
bristle  end.  In  effect  he  had  snapped  at  Maisie.  The 
little  goose  was  not  sufficiently  aware  of  Mr.  Savedge. 
Her  mind  was  somewhere  else. 

"Here,  May,  you  hurry  up  them  fiddlers,  and  dance 
this  with  Mr.  Sa-vedge.  I  don't  guess  he  knows  any  of 
your  little  friends. " 

"Little?"  —  Dignified  misses  tilted  their  chins.  In- 
dignant young  men  reddened  down  to  their  collar 
buttons. 

"But,  papa,"  Maisie  faltered,  "this  next  dance,  I 
have  it  engaged.  I " 

"It's  mine,"  said  Jim  Krag,  discovering  that  the  dance 
with  her  was  a  thing  he  greatly  desired.  He  spoke 
more  bluntly  than  he  thought.  He  did  not  like  Mr. 
Hacklette's  kid  gloves.  He  did  not  like  Mr.  Hack- 
lette. Something  antipathetic  in  the  man  set  him  on 
edge. 

Maisie  nodded  earnestly. 

"Eh  —  oh,  with  our  future  governor,  eh?"  Mr. 
Hacklette  examined  the  gnarled  hickory  knot  of  boy- 
hood confronting  him.  He  wanted  to  see  this  snag  that 
caught  into  a  sudden  and  passionate  plan  of  his  concern- 
ing Mr.  Savedge  of  the  Savedges  and  his  sixteen-year- 
old  child  of  a  daughter.  He  was  the  more  exasperated 


20  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

because  the  snag  was  a  homespun  stripe  of  boy.  The 
bully  in  him  raged  against  the  restraint  imposed  by  the 
modern  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Savedge  for  his  part  was  struck  by  the  level 
look  in  the  boy's  gray  eyes.  "Whew,"  he  thought, 
"here's  a  sturdy  man-child  that  can  be  vindictive.  Case 
of  cave  canem  all  right." 

"See  here,  Jimmy,"  chided  the  girl  of  the  grave  brow 
and  mischievous  black  eyes,  "wasn't  this  to  be  our  dance? 
Seems  to  me  the  Philo  president  should  claim  some 
precedence  in  the  sight  of  the  mighty." 

A  half  smile  twisted  Jim's  mouth.  He  understood. 
A  loyal  comrade  was  bolstering  up  his  dance  market. 
And  two  black  eyes  were  taunting  the  dragon  come  among 
them. 

"No,  Alice,  you're  mixed. "  He  rallied  her  as  he  would 
a  sister.  "You  have  the  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth.  This 
next  is  the  third,  and  I  have  it  with  Miss  Hacklette. " 
He  crooked  his  arm  toward  Miss  Hacklette,  and  Miss 
Hacklette  took  it  as  she  would  something  about  to 
be  lost. 

The  black  eyes  sparkled  approvingly.  "All  right  for 
you,  Jim  Krag!" 

"Eh  — what?"  stammered  Mr.  Hacklette.  "What 
name?  —  Krag!  —  Surely  —  no,  surely  it  ain't  little  Yel- 
low Jaunders?"  The  hard  light  of  power  came  into  his 
eyes  even  as  he  relaxed,  expanded.  His  change  of  man- 
ner was  like  the  sudden  stopping  of  machinery.  "Look- 
a-here,  Tildie. "  This  was  a  morsel  of  joviality  bitten 
off  and  flung  to  Mrs.  Hacklette.  "Look  close.  Re- 
member him?  Course  you  do.  It's  the  same  owlish, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  21 

saffron-mugged  little  bra  —  bruiser  —  that  used  to 
clutter  around  his  mammy's  skirts  when  she"  -Mr. 
Hacklette  smiled,  while  his  eyes  grew  harder—  "when 
she  would  come  to  do  your  sewing,  Tildie.  Cain't  reach 
that  far  back,  I  guess.  Eh,  Master  Jimmy?" 

"No,"  said  Jim,  drawing  away,  "I  don't  remember." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Hacklette,  "but  I'd  bet  your 
mother  would. " 

None  could  say  that  the  least  offence  lurked  beneath 
the  affable  conversation-making,  yet  the  boy's  cheek- 
bones were  splotched  rust-red.  His  mates,  too,  were 
sobered  and  waiting  tensely,  sensing  menace  to  one  of 
the  pack.  Instinct,  peculiarly  the  monitor  of  the 
young  animal,  was  clairvoyant.  Maisie  herself  was 
half  panting  in  vague  excitation,  with  eyes  raised  be- 
seechingly to  her  father. 

"Probably  you've  never  heard,"  said  Jim,  nervously 
pushing  his  cuffs  up  the  short  sleeves  of  his  coat,  "that 
my  mother  is  dead. " 

She  had  died  only  during  the  year.  She  could  not 
stay  even  to  see  her  boy  win  the  oratory  medal.  She 
knew  that  the  medal  was  to  be  won.  He  and  she  had 
made  quite  a  point  of  that.  With  the  patient,  plodding 
calculation  characteristic  of  him,  he  had  settled  on  the 
medal  as  the  climax  of  his  high  school  career,  and  dur- 
ing three  years  she  had  watched  him  moving  tirelessly 
toward  it.  She  knew  how  disappointed  Jim  would  be  if 
she  were  not  there  to  share  in  the  glow  and  tingle 
of  triumph,  as  she  had  shared  in  the  arduous 
waiting.  She  tried  very  hard  not  to  go  before  then, 
and  each  day  resolutely  put  off  the  merciful  call. 


22  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

But  the  Angel  lost  patience  at  last,  and  struck  her 
down. 

A  small  insurance,  kept  up  by  the  toil  of  her  fingers 
and  the  squandering  of  eyesight,  and  Jim's  vacation  earn- 
ings^ would,  she  knew,  line  her  grave  with  flowers  and  see 
him  through  to  his  diploma.  For  the  rest,  she  had  no 
misgivings;  Jim  was  a  boy  who  could  take  care  of 
himself. 

So  much,  and  of  his  father's  early  death,  Jim  Krag 
knew,  for  his  mother  had  told  him.  Through  their 
years  together,  he  had  seen  her  —  it  seemed  always 
he  had  seen  her  —  working  with  her  fingers  and  pay- 
ing out  life.  Ceaselessly  the  precious  fluid  had  run 
along  the  thread  and  off  the  needle's  point  into  exquisite 
fabrics.  This  also  he  knew.  But  he  had  never  heard 
her  utter  the  name  of  Hacklette. 

"Eh  —  too  bad  —  poor  woman ! "  Mr.  Hacklette  snip- 
ped off  that  shred  of  sympathy.  "Sure,  too  bad,  for  I'd 
bet  she'd  remember.  Wouldn't  she,  Tildie?" 

Mrs.  Hacklette  smiled  hurriedly,  and  murmured  "Yes." 

"I  wish  you'd  be  plain,  sir,"  said  Jim. 

Mr.  Hacklette's  short  upper  lip  warped  to  his  teeth. 
He  was  ready.  The  sewing  woman's  kid  was  really  going 
to  dance  with  Maisie,  was  he?  And  despite  the  bringing 
along  of  Mr.  Savedge?  "Plain?"  he  repeated.  "Why, 
where's  the  harm  in  being  glad  to  see  you  again,  when 
we  used  to  be  neighbours  on  et?" 

"Of  course,"  Mrs.  Hacklette  carefully  interjected, 
"that  was  before  we  went  and  built  out  here  in  the  South 
End,  you  know. " 

Mr.  Hacklette  frowned.     They  should  distinguish  be- 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  23 

tween  him  and  Tildie.  The  South  End  did  not  puff  him 
up,  they  could  see  that. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  having  thus  taken  care  of 
Tildie's  interruption,  "it's  a  curious  world.  Here's 
a  dozen  years  slipped  by,  and  here's  little  Yellow  Jaunders 
again,  and  it  don't  seem  yesterday  since  his  mammy  and 
him  came  to  do  — our  washing,  wasn't  it,  Tildie?" 

"Papa!"     It  was  Maisie's  cry,  hurt  and  protesting. 

Her  shrinking  was  pictured  on  all  the  young  faces. 
The  World,  a  monster,  had  broken  in  on  Childhood, 
scattering  the  happy  sojourners  there,  maiming  their 
leader,  frightening  them  out  of  their  pretty  country. 

Maisie  had  turned  to  Jim  Krag,  as  one  does  involun- 
tarily to  note  how  a  fellow-creature  takes  a  blow.  The 
look  on  his  face  made  her  throb  with  compassion.  Yet 
she  drew  back  from  the  look  on  his  face,  and  could  not 
tell  why. 

Another  girl  —  not  Jeannette,  but  Alice  —  moved 
between  them,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"What  can  it  matter,  Jim?"  she  said  softly.  "What 
difference " 

"None,  if  —  it  was  true,"  he  stammered.  "Mother 
would  have  told  me ' 

"Not  true?"  Mr.  Hacklette's  brows  twitched  up- 
ward. "Tildie,  not  true?  " 

"Sakes  alive,"  protested  Mrs.  Hacklette,  "don't  I 
mind  me  that  last  time  him  and  the  poor  woman  was  in 
our  house?  I'd  just  given  her  a  snack  of  something  to 
carry  home  when " 

"Tildie!"  Mr.  Hacklette  was  shocked.  One  should 
not  mention  one's  deeds  of  charity.  Beside,  his  voluble 


24  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

lady  had  said  precisely  enough.  It  would  be  as  well 
not  to  recall  all  of  that  episode.  He  would  not  recall 
how  he  had  come  from  his  shabby  office  to  his  shabby 
home  on  the  day  in  question,  and  met  Jimmy's  tired 
mother  with  her  baby  coming  out;  how  he  had  put 
out  his  hand  for  the  paper  sack  in  Mrs.  Krag's  hand; 
and  how  he  had  thrust  his  high-bridged  nose  therein. 

The  sack  held  a  bunch  of  over-ripe  grapes.  Mrs. 
Hacklette  had  gratefully  pressed  them  on  Mrs.  Krag. 
The  "Boom"  had  not  happened  as  yet,  and  Mr.  Hacklette 
had  not  as  yet  manipulated  options  on  corn  fields  checker- 
boarded  into  city  lots.  And  Maisie  had  only  just  ar- 
rived. Mrs.  Krag,  coming  in  to  help  on  Maisie's  scant 
baby  trousseau,  had  found  poor  Matilda  Hacklette 
half  fainting  over  a  tub  of  hot  suds.  The  Hacklette 
wash-day  needed  to  be  frequent  in  that  era.  Setting 
Jimmy  on  the  floor  with  a  yellow  soda  biscuit,  Mrs. 
Krag  sent  Mrs.  Hacklette  to  bed,  and  replaced  her  at 
the  tub. 

Now  munching  a  yellow  soda  biscuit  soon  palled  on 
little  Jimmy,  and  he  was  for  exploring  the  unfamiliar 
and  squalid  kitchen.  Mrs.  Krag  looked  about  her  with 
a  mother's  quick  expediency.  She  had  instant  need  of 
two  things,  brightness  and  noise.  She  snatched  a  tin 
pie  plate  from  a  shelf,  and  a  spoon  of  German  silver  from 
the  cupboard.  These  she  laid  on  the  floor  beside  the 
restless  toddler,  and  let  him  work  out  the  combination 
for  himself. 

When  Mr.  Hacklette  held  the  sack  between  his  fingers 
and  thrust  his  nose  therein,  he  perceived  a  brightness 
among  the  grapes.  His  instinct  was  keen  for  that  which 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  25 

shines.  Between  thumb  and  forefinger  he  brought  forth 
the  spoon  of  German  silver.  Little  Jimmy  had  smuggled 
his  drumstick  into  the  sack. 

Mr.  Hacklette's  brows  arched  as  he  dangled  the 
accusing  spoon  in  air.  But  he  saw  only  Jimmy's  scowl- 
ing face  over  his  mother's  shoulder.  The  charitable 
widow  was  hastening  from  that  house.  Fo;  her  the 
Hacklettes  never  existed  afterward. 

The  half  truth!  Jim  Krag,  surrounded  by  his  little 
world,  took  the  blade  into  his  flesh,  standing.  His  pride 
of  a  poor  boy  was  the  rawest  pulp  in  any  case,  and  in  his 
sensitiveness  Hacklette's  mean,  ingrate  half  truth  con- 
cerning the  family's  washing  might  almost  have  touched 
his  mother's  honour.  At  least,  it  lacked  only  that.  He 
was  the  more  helpless.  He  could  not  assume  offence. 
The  cruel,  skilful  manner  of  his  humiliation  left  him 
no  retort.  But  the  vindictive  germ  in  him  was  multiply- 
ing, seething,  vitiating  his  being.  In  unreasoning,  sullen 
fury  —  and  the  man's  smile  goading  the  boy  to  it  —  he 
blurted  out  choking  syllables.  "Unfair  .  .  .  coward- 
ly" .  .  .  These  were  among  them. 

Mr.  Hacklette  turned  to  the  others  in  grieved  surprise, 
as  though  to  ask  what  low  rowdy  was  this  that  they 
had  brought  to  outrage  his  hospitality. 

"Oh,  well,  you're  your  mammy's  own  unmannerly 
whelp,  I  see, "  he  said  resignedly.  The  boy  caught  his 
breath  and  the  man  quickly  raised  his  hand  to  stem 
another  torrent.  Like  acid  dropping  on  a  wound,  his 
words  fell:  "Now,  that's  enough,  sir.  Stop,  that's 
enough  out  of  you.  Your  young  friends  don't  know, 


26  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

I  guess,  that  I   caught   her   sneaking   off  some   of  our 
silverware  that  day. " 

On  the  haze  of  young  faces  and  bright  lights  and  flowers 
of  spring,  while  mandolins  and  guitars  tinkled  promise 
of  the  dance,  the  boy  stared  dumbly.  The  faces  all 
seemed  oddly  white,  and  were  of  one  blank  expres- 
sion. To  his  blurred  vision  they  weaved  up  and 
down,  like  faces  chalked  on  an  agitated  canvas,  yet  ever 
afterward  they  were  as  ston  in  his  memory.  Ever 
afterward  h  could  close  his  eyes,  and  they  were  there, 
the  blank  faces  of  his  little  world.  There  was  no 
help  in  them.  One  —  Maisie's  —  was  ghastly  white, 
ghastly  and  haggard  in  its  pity,  and  fascinated  him.  He 
no  more  saw  the  others.  He  saw  horror  grow  in  her  eyes 
and  fill  them  utterly.  He  wondered,  not  knowing  that 
the  distorting  change  over  his  own  features  was  the  cause. 

The  change  in  him  came  with  the  clearing  of  his  brain. 
Now  he  could  state  to  himself  the  situation  in  cold, 
concise,  merciless  terms.  His  mother  had  been  called  a 
thief!  He  realized,  coldly,  clearly,  his  responsibility 
Only,  how  best  to  do  it  —  how  —  how 

He  believed  afterward  that  he  was  edging  in  toward 
Hacklette's  throat,  seeing  only  that,  when  a  shriek — 
a  shriek  that  turned  blood  to  ice, — held  him  where  he  was, 
and  his  tense,  curled  fingers  went  limp.  There  were  other 
shrieks,  in  hysterical  sympathy.  Some  of  the  girls  began 
to  cry.  He  saw  Maisie  falling,  her  eyelids  fluttering  and 
closing.  Bun  Chubbuck  caught  her,  awkward  Bun  Chub- 
buck,  his  face  scared  and  drawn  in  anguish,  and  let  her 
down  to  the  floor  as  tenderly  as  a  prince  of  angels. 

Her  mother  was  on  her  knees  instantly  beside  her, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  27 

moaning,  blowing  into  her  face,  chafing  her  wrists,  while 
the  festoons  of  beads  jingled. 

"Doctor  Oliver!  she  cried  frantically."  "Oh,  quick, 
quick,  phone  for  Doctor  Oliver!" 

Jim  Krag  thou0ht  at  first  that  Maisie  had  fainted. 
But  as  he  looked  on  the  waxen,  death-like  face,  he  began 
to  tremble.  The  impulse  rose  in  him  to  snatch  her  up, 
to  struggle  with  her  back  to  life.  The  impulse  was  pain. 
But  how  best  to  do  it  —  how  —  how?  Again,  he  did  not 
know. 

"It's  only  her  heart,"  said  Hacklette  to  young  Sav- 
edge,  returning  from  the  telephone.  "She  gets  'em,  these 
attacks." 

The  mother  looked  up  in  stricken  appeal.  "Oh, 
isn't  the  doctor  coming?  Isn't  .  .  . 

Gazing  down  fixedly  on  the  girl's  lifeless  face,  Jim 
Krag  decided  in  the  moment  what  his  career  was  to  be. 
In  the  moment,  at  their  little  senior  party  on  the  threshold 
of  destiny,  his  goal  had  changed.  Beyond  the  Alps  lay 
.  .  .  rapine! 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

The  Medal  Winner 

THERE  was  a  rush  of  red  letter  days  to  the  end  of 
the  school  calendar.     With  class  days,  field  days, 
contests,   parties,    then   commencement,    then 
the  alumni  picnic,  it  was  a  sunburst  of  the  golden  hours. 
These  events  were  the  punctuation  marks  that  closed  the 
lesson.  The  text  being  youth,  they  were  exclamation  points. 

How  any  mortal  boy  or  girl,  duly  qualified  by  four 
years  of  work  for  this  season  of  glory,  could  miss  the  feast 
was  inconceivable.  Yet  commencement,  the  climax, 
was  only  a  few  days  off,  and  Jim  Krag  no  more  came  to 
school.  He  had  dropped  out,  he  had  vanished.  No 
one  had  seen  him  since  the  Hacklette  party. 

Jeannette  could  tell  them  nothing.  Jim  had  not  spoken, 
taking  her  home  that  night,  except  to  ask  her  for  his 
medal  and  mutter  "Good-bye,"  without,  explained  Jean- 
nette, even  shaking  hands. 

"  It  —  his  just  thinking,  thinking,  all  the  time  —  was 
downright  creepy,"  said  Jeannette.  "It  was  like  a  — 
you  know,  like  a  blood-curdler  going  on  in  the  dark, 
which  you  can't  see,  but  which  you  can  feel." 

"Just  the  same,"  said  Alice,  "we  want  him  at  com- 
mencement. Oh,  those  horrid  Hacklettes;  except  Maisie 
of  course!" 

28 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  29 

She  and  the  sergeant-at-arms  had  already  obtained 
Jim's  address  at  the  office,  and  were  going  out  there  at 
the  noon  hour.  The  rooter  chief  humbly  applied  to  join 
them  as  a  deputy,  and  the  little  chubby  sergeant,  in 
demure  contempt  for  his  brawn,  finally  said  he  might. 
But  she  ignored  him  elaborately  all  the  way  there. 

Jim  made  his  home  with  three  spinster  aunts,  dress- 
makers, who  lived  in  a  little  frame  house.  There  was  a 
weather-worn  porch  brightly  screened  by  morning  glories. 
The  aunts  did  not  even  know  that  Jim  had  stopped  school. 
He  was  never  a  talkative  lad,  they  said.  He  didn't 
expect  his  hard-working  aunts  to  be  eagerly  interested 
in  his  lessons  and  games,  so  he  almost  never  spoke  of  his 
little  affairs.  He  just  came  and  went,  and  was  so  good 
and  quiet  about  the  house.  Poor,  lonely  boy!  They 
knew  he  grieved  for  his  mother.  He  hadn't  what  might 
be  called  a  real  companion  since  she  died.  "Ah,  dearie, 
life  is  cruel! "  said  these  dress-makers  behind  the  weather- 
worn porch  where  morning  glories  clambered. 

"But,"  Alice  interrupted  gently,  "commencement  is 
Friday,  you  know. " 

"Commencement?  Ah,  yes,  that  must  be  it,"  said 
one  of  the  old  ladies.  Yes,  for  Jimmy  had  seemed  busier 
than  usual  the  last  few  days,  getting  his  own  breakfast 
before  they  were  up  and  coming  home  late,  after  they  were 
in  bed.  Did  the  young  lady  suppose  the  —  commence- 
ment, was  it  —  was  the  reason? 

Alice  shook  her  head.  So  their  expedition  had  only 
deepened  the  mystery. 

"I'll  bet  Jim  has  gone  to  work,"  declared  the  rooter 
chief,  as  they  started  back. 


SO  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"And  miss  commencement?"  objected  the  sergeant. 

"Why  not?  You  girls  can't  get  it  into  your  heads 
there's  nothing  left  of  school  now  but  the  flourishes. 
Just  flourishes,  and  Jim  — 

" can't  wait  for  flourishes, "  said  Alice. 

"Not  him,  Alice,  and,"  added  the  rooter  enviously, 
"here  he's  gone  and  got  a  week's  start  on  the  rest  of  us 
in  the  real  business  of  life.  I  wonder  whose  law  office 
he's  in." 

Wherever  Jim  was,  when  two  thousand  and  some  hun- 
dred fathers  and  mothers  and  available  kin  thronged 
into  the  high  school  auditorium  for  commencement, 
Jim's  mind  was  not  occupied  with  that  event.  He  had 
paused  long  enough  during  the  morning  to  mail  a  small 
package  in  care  of  the  committee  on  flowers,  whereupon 
his  thoughts  surged  back  on  a  larger  matter  that  now  en- 
slaved his  existence. 

Commencement  was  Bun  Chubbuck's  triumph.  Bunny 
delivered  the  class  oration.  Each  premeditated  sound 
rolled  off  his  tongue  in  exactly  the  right  sequence.  This 
was  the  more  to  his  credit,  because  constantly  and  val- 
iantly he  had  to  hold  back  the  word  "supernal,"  which 
was  ever  trying  to  crowd  through  and  slip  off  into  the 
infinity  of  space  and  posterity. 

When,  cherubic  and  stern,  Mr.  Chubbuck  laid  on  the 
last  solemn  marvel  of  effective  sound  to  his  critique  of 
the  universe,  the  universe  in  front  of  him  and  his  class- 
mates behind  him  burst  forth  roundly,  affectionately,  in 
a  huge  salvo  of  applause.  The  artistry  of  vocalization 
had  made  them  tingle.  They  trusted  Bunny  for  it  that 
whatever  he  had  said  warranted  a  tingling.  He  sat  down, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  31 

flushed  and  glowing,  just  a  human  boy  again.  He 
searched  the  blur  of  faces  in  front  for  a  pair  of  blue  eyes. 
Maisie  Hacklette  was  out  there  somewhere.  He  did  not 
find  the  blue  eyes,  but  she  was  out  there,  and  she  had 
seen  him,  had  heard  him,  had  witnessed  his  moment  of 
triumph.  Surely,  this  was  compensation  for  the  loss  of 
the  oratory  medal.  He  thrilled  in  gratitude  to  Jim  Krag 
who  had  given  him  the  chance,  who  had  made  him  class 
orator  rather  than  take  the  honour  for  himself. 

And  now  the  flowers  were  coming.  Enormous  bouquets 
were  being  handed  up  over  the  heads  of  the  school  or- 
chestra. This  present  onslaught  was  Bunny's  quota, 
from  his  father  and  mother  and  Cousin  Phemie,  still 
applauding  in  the  fifth  row  back.  Then  came  a  little 
package.  A  watch?  No  doubt,  since  Uncle  Alec  could 
not  be  aught  but  rich  and  benevolent,  he  being  down  in 
Sonora  where  all  the  world  was  a  silver  mine.  At  the 
moment,  however,  Uncle  Alec  down  in  Sonora  was  think- 
ing of  passing  dividends,  and  there  was  no  watch  in  the 
little  package.  Bunny,  when  he  opened  it,  turned  as 
red  as  fifty  beets  and  snapped  the  casket  shut  again  be- 
fore any  one  could  see.  Yet,  in  a  flame  of  golden  letter- 
ing, he  had  read  his  own  name.  The  little  package 
contained  the  oratory  medal. 

Only  when  alone  that  night  in  his  room  did  he  open 
the  box  again,  and  saw  the  n  te  Jim  Krag  had  sent  with  it. 

"Melt  the  thing  down,  Chub"  (he  read),  "into  a  nugget  of 
experience.  .Consider  also  the  ant,  Bunny  boy.  One  bundle 
and  one  destination  are  enough  for  the  ant.  He  doesn't  try 
to  arrive  at  two  places  at  the  same  time.  But  he  does  land  the 
bundle.  Also  your  Uncle  Jimmy.  He  landed  the  medal. 


32  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Oratory  wasn't  his  kind  of  road,  either.  He  stammered  and 
stumbled  and  barked  his  shins.  But  he  had  decided  that  he 
had  to  have  the  medal.  If  it  had  been  for  logarithms,  or 
millinery,  or  peeling  potatoes,  or  playing  bean  bag,  he'd  have 
gone  after  it  just  the  same. 

"Now,  you,  Chubby,  had  been  a  speechful  wonder  even  in 
the  ward  schools.  You  had  wee  Jimmy  beaten  a  thousand 
octaves  and  a  windmill  full  of  gestures.  You  don't  know  it, 
but  it  was  a  four  years'  campaign  for  Jimmy.  And  even  then 
you'd  have  won.  But  take  your  unabridged,  Bunny,  and  if 
you  read  deep  enough,  you'll  come  on  a  certain  little  word. 
The  certain  little  word  is  Supernal.  One  needs  time,  though, 
to  reach  the  S's,  and  meantime  the  bull  pup  passed  the  rabbit 
and  snatched  off  the  persimmon. 

"Do  you  guess  now  why  I  backed  you  for  class  orator?  Two 
bundles,  Bunny!  I  loaded  you  up  with  the  second  one.  And 
you  wobbled,  and  dropped  one  of  them.  I'm  sorry,  Chub. 
I  found,  after  I  got  the  medal,  that  I  didn't  want  it.  You  take 
it.  I  can,  by  patient  industry,  probably  gather  up  enough 
remorse  without  having  the  memory  of  the  way  you  looked  at 
this  trinket  the  other  night.  Besides,  as  a  nugget,  Bunny  dear, 
jt  ought  to  be  worth  more  to  you  than  a  rich  uncle's  legacy. 
And  if  you  don't  mind,  won't  you  forgive  me  the  second  bundle? 

"J.  K." 

Bunny  stared  at  the  note.  Strident,  mocking  laughter 
seemed  to  jangle  in  his  ears. 

"I  suppose  it's  what  Jim  would  call  a  'supernal' 
josh,"  he  mused  lugubriously. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

A  Young  Physician's  First  Adventure 

THREE  years  from  that  spring,  after  —  as  one  may 
say  —  three  years'  toil  in  forging  deadly  weap- 
ons, Jim    Krag   stirred   again  into  the  world. 
Very  curiously,  it  was  into  precisely  the  same  little  world 
from  which  he  had  vanished. 

Work,  because  of  the  ruthless  Krag  manner  of  working, 
had  created  James  Krag,  M.  D.,  a  young  man  of  a  degree 
and  of  stone.  Jimmy  Krag  had  not  gone  into  the  law 
then!  The  morning  following  the  Hacklette  party  he 
looked  up  Doctor  Oliver,  the  Hacklettes'  family  physician, 
in  the  city  directory,  and  thirty-five  minutes  later  he  was 
telling  that  benevolent  practitioner  that  he  wanted  to 
enter  his  office  and  study  medicine.  Doctor  Oliver  had  to 
wrinkle  his  brows  with  severity  in  order  to  focus  eyesight 
and  judgment,  so  that  it  took  him  a  minute  to  say  yes. 

"I  will  take  out  enough  life  insurance  to  secure  you, 
until  I  pay  it  back,  for  any  expenses  I  may  have  to  ask 
you  for  at  the  medical  college,"  Jim  explained,  "and  I 
will  do  my  studying  here,  so  as  to  learn  wrhat  you  will 
let  me  learn  from  you  and  at  the  same  time  be  of  any  use 
to  you  that  I  can.  But,"  he  added,  "I  don't  want  to 
bind  myself  after  I  get  my  degree.  I  must  be  free  to 
leave  this  town  any  time  afterward. " 

33 


34  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Doctor  Oliver  was  content.  He  would  not  stand  in 
the  way  of  a  young  friend's  best  interests. 

"They  won't  be  my  best  interests,"  said  Jim. 
Doctor  Oliver  felt  that  he  said  it  the  least  bit  sullenly. 

The  three  years  followed,  day  after  day,  hour  after 
hour,  each  hour  being  of  sixty  pregnant  minutes.  A 
heart  beat  is  infinity  enough  for  an  eternal  thought, 
whereupon  eternity  begins. 

But  the  young  student  rather  contemptuously  regarded 
himself  as  a  plumber's  apprentice.  He  worked  in  yards 
of  piping  that  were  clogged  with  useless  mortality  to  make 
us  rot  before  our  time,  as  though  we  were  yet  as  wolves 
and  devoured  raw  the  flesh  of  our  food. 

Revolting  thoughts  were  these,  and  a  scavenger's 
leer,  for  the  blessed  art  of  healing! 

In  the  anatomical  laboratory,  with  wide  forearms  bared, 
he  worked.  He  would  lift  a  hair-like  nerve  from  its 
ghastly  mass  with  the  delicate  precision  of  a  watchmaker 
or  a  woman,  and  as  he  worked  a  sneer  grew  on  his  lips. 
But  he  worked  with  greedy  intensity.  It  might  have 
been  gluttony  before  an  unclean  feast.  His  passion  was 
the  heart  and  the  brain,  the  blood  and  the  nerves.  He 
came  to  despise  man's  science  because  of  the  secrets  that 
the  heart  and  the  brain  yet  withheld  from  mankind. 

Jim  still  lived  with  his  dress-making  aunts.  The  little 
they  needed  from  him,  he  gave.  This  he  earned  by  proof- 
reading on  the  Morning  News.  Except  on  lecture  nights, 
he  read  proof  until  two  in  the  morning.  Then  he  walked 
home,  and  slept  four  hours.  Sunday  mornings  he  slept 
through  ten  hours.  Each  week  day,  from  eight  in  the 
morning  until  half  past  six  at  night,  he  devoted  to  the 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  35 

study  of  medicine,  in  Doctor  Oliver's  office,  in  the  college 
laboratories  and  lecture  rooms,  at  clinics  and  Saint 
Margaret's  hospital.  He  went  nowhere,  he  saw  no  one, 
unless  in  this  routine.  He  did  not  smoke.  He  did  not 
drink.  Almost,  he  never  laughed.  He  read  no  papers, 
no  books,  no  letters,  except  again  as  his  daily  routine 
exacted.  His  communication  with  life  and  the  world 
and  joy  was  a  dead  wire. 

Now,  however,  he  was  going  forth  to  a  merrymaking. 
He  was  going  to  the  annual  alumni  picnic  on  Cleft  Rock 
for  that  year's  high  school  graduating  class. 

The  morning  sun  juggled  dancing  motes  before  his 
dulled  gray  eyes,  which  were  used  to  the  lamp.  Care- 
free laughter  roused  his  mind  to  the  activity  of  rest,  after 
gore-stained  books  and  labour  in  dead  things.  Piquant 
beauty,  shy  glances,  girlish  forms,  a  ravishing  ankle 
revealed  and  seen  no  more,  these  troubled  his  senses, 
wedded  to  sexless  science.  Colour,  sound,  flesh,  the 
stirring  of  spring,  flowers,  trees,  birds  singing,  the  clear 
lake,  distant  mountains,  the  sky  and  fleecy  clouds,  brac- 
ing air,  subtle  longing,  enchantment,  exaltation,  illusion, 
delusion  —  Nature  —  confused  his  being,  which  had 
trafficked  so  long  in  drab  facts,  bartering  the  minutes  for 
truth. 

When  he  closed  his  aunts'  door  behind  him,  and  stepped 
from  the  weather-worn  porch  to  the  street,  it  was  as  a 
tired  mechanic.  The  work  was  done,  three  years  of  it. 
But  he  was  too  wearied  —  to  the  fibre  of  his  soul  he  was 
weary  —  for  the  labourer's  restful  relaxation  in  the  quiet 
sunshine  of  a  holiday.  Yet  he  did  know  the  labourer's 
hardly -earned  feeling  of  satisfaction  because  of  the  work 


36  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

done.  He  might  have  been  going  forth  to  receive  his 
wage.  His  mind's  eye  was  set  on  the  vanishing  point, 
and  the  expression  of  his  face  was  dark  and  resolute. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  going  to  a  young  people's  picnic. 

Carrying  a  canvas  telescope  valise,  he  swung  on  the 
running  board  of  a  cable  car  with  the  nonchalant  ease  of 
a  brakeman.  The  action  in  its  heavy  grace  proclaimed 
that  here  was  no  futility.  Down  town  he  transferred  to 
a  Lake  car,  already  partly  filled  with  picnickers  on  their 
way  to  the  boat  at  the  foot  of  Main  Street.  There  were 
girls  in  crisp  white,  their  escorts  in  duck  or  flannels,  with 
baskets,  rugs,  and  shawls. 

Krag's  sombre  figure  and  canvas  telescope  did  not  ac- 
cord with  the  scene.  None  of  the  picnickers  on  the  car 
recognized  him.  It  did  not  occur  to  them  to  look  at 
him  closely,  nor  that  he  could  be  one  of  themselves.  He 
was  equally  oblivious  of  them.  He  was  oblivious  of  the 
contrast  he  suffered  beside  natty  youth.  The  hardening 
armour  of  his  personality  made  him  tolerant  of  differences 
in  apparel.  Nonconformity  no  longer  troubled  him. 

The  car  stopped  half-way  round  the  loop  at  the  lake 
front,  and  the  picnickers  climbed  off  with  their  baskets, 
hurrying  aboard  a  little  excursion  steam-boat  and  gaily 
exchanging  greetings  with  other  picnickers  at  the  rail. 
Going  up  the  crowded  gang-plank,  Krag  heard  his  name 
in  a  burst  of  reproachful  surprise. 

"Sakes  alive,  Jimmy  Krag!" 

It  stripped  off  the  years  like  a  cloak,  embarrassing 
him.  Over  his  shoulder,  he  saw  a  chubby,  chatty, 
mirthful  young  matron.  "If  it  isn't  the  sergeant,"  he 
murmured. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  37 

"Oh,  Jim,  wake  up!"  cried  she.  "You're  way  off  the 
almanac,  and  that  was  ages  ago.  I'm  only  chaperon  now. ' ' 

"Chaperon?"  He  must  get  his  mind  on  this.  The 
compact  little  sergeant-at-arms  was  already  rotund. 
She  was  a  ripening  peach.  "Chaperon?"  he  repeated. 

"Why  not?"  she  retorted.  "Archie!"  she  called  to 
some  one  ahead.  "I  declare,  if  that  boy  is  trying  to 
lose  me " 

The  boy  in  demand  turned.  He  carried  a  hamper  on 
one  shoulder,  a  shopping  bag  on  his  wrist,  opera-glasses 
over  a  finger,  a  bear  rug  and  two  Navajo  blankets  under 
an  arm,  and  his  pockets  bulged  with  veils,  gloves,  scarfs, 
vanity  bags,  and  handkerchiefs.  Krag  in  bewilderment 
perceived  that  it  was  the  rooter  chief. 

"You  took  him?"  he  protested.  "Why,  you  were 
always  fighting. " 

"And  are  yet,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Archie,  you're 
clogging  up  the  ship.  Please  help  me  on  this  boat.  You 
know  I'm  out  of  breath.  Oh,  dear,  you're  right,  Jim,  I 
shouldn't  have  done  it.  Wait,  Archie's  tie  is  round  under 
one  ear  again.  Hold  still  a  minute!" 

Jim  followed  them  dumbly. 

"Now  then  —  questions,"  said  the  sergeant,  having 
led  to  camp-stools  in  the  lee  of  the  pilot  house.  "And 
stacks  of  'em.  Jim  Krag,  what  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself?  " 

Others  wanted  to  know,  too,  as  word  passed  over  the 
deck  that  Jim  Krag  had  bobbed  up  to  the  surface  of  the 
world  again  and  was  on  that  very  boat.  They  gathered 
round  and  welcomed  him  back.  Yet  back  to  what? 
They  began  to  know  the  feeling  that  handshakes  and 


38  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

exclamations  may  not  gloze  over  the  truth  that  a  re- 
union is  never  a  reunion.  Quite  simply,  the  past  could 
not  be  the  present,  and  the  past  was  an  absent  member. 
After  three  years  only,  Jim's  class  could  not  muster  a 
dozen  at  the  alumni  picnic.  And  the  short  dozen,  present 
in  the  flesh,  were  yet  not  wholly  there.  Each  met  in 
the  other  a  partial  stranger.  Each  had  brought  an  in- 
truder to  the  reunion.  They  spoke  of  the  totally  absent, 
who  also  would  have  been  partial  strangers. 

"Alice  is  a  junior  at  Vassar  now,"  said  one.  "She 
won't  be  home  till  June. " 

"And  Jeannette, "  said  the  clumsy  rooter  chief,  while 
others  stole  glances  at  Krag,  "Jeannette's  married,  and 
moved  to  California. " 

Krag  did  not  hear.  He  was  peering  down  at  the  wharf, 
scanning  each  new  comer.  He  had  received  an  invitation 
to  Jeannette's  wedding,  and  laid  it  aside  among  the  re- 
agent bottles  on  his  laboratory  table.  The  man  was  some 
California  mining  man,  and  wealthy,  no  doubt.  Jim 
had  forgotten  the  name,  and  never  did  remember  it. 

The  sergeant  hastened  to  mention  Bun  Chubbuck. 
Bun  had  floated  away  to  Mexico;  had  an  uncle  down 
there. 

"Before  he  went,  though,"  said  Herman  Muller,  on  a 
time  first  violin,  now  clerk  in  Siegler's  cigar  store,  "he 
made  a  dead-set  for  Maisie  Hacklette.  Suppose  he's  hunt- 
ing a  fortune  to  match  her  dad's.  The  old  hedgehog ! " 

And  so  it  went  —  reminiscences  —  fitting  a  glass  case 
over  withered  blossoms. 

The  stubby  little  steam-boat  let  forth  a  querulous 
blast.  Girls  shrieked,  and  everybody  stirred.  There 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  39 

was  a  rush  to  the  rail  to  hurry  up  those  who  might  be 
left  behind,  as  though  the  whistle  were  not  perfectly 
audible  on  the  wharf. 

Jim  Krag's  tired  gray  eyes  focused  in  acute  attention. 
Two  girls  and  a  man  were  leaving  an  open  carriage  drawn 
up  near  the  gang-plank.  One  of  the  girls  —  and  the  gray 
eyes  leaped  to  flame  —  was  flesh  and  form  and  breath, 
a  promise,  a  lure,  mystery,  the  soul's  warmth,  and  man's 
rebellion  against  bleak  loneliness  —  a  mate ! 

The  other  girl?  Krag  did  not  see  the  other  girl.  He 
saw  the  one  girl  pinch  up  her  skirts  in  both  hands,  like 
a  Versailles  milkmaid  courtesy  ing  in  the  minuet;  saw  her 
come  swarming  prettily  towards  the  boat,  her  two  feet 
twinkling;  saw  a  picture  hat,  as  in  running  she  tucked 
down  her  chin;  the  curve  and  the  nape  of  her  white  neck; 
and  two  brown  girlish  curls  fluttering  on  her  breast; 
and  slenderness  and  sweet  grace  in  fairy  blue;  and  a 
vibrant,  joyous  being.  And  he  thought  he  saw  happiness. 

But  over  his  face  came  another  expression.  It  was 
not  pain,  but  more  terrible  than  pain,  and  itself  terrifying. 
It  was  the  power  of  will,  flowing  lava  hot;  and  desire  was 
embedded  there. 

Yet  he  asked:  "Who  is  she?     Who  - 

Then  the  astounding  happened,  and  swept  the  other 
look,  the  look  of  renunciation,  from  his  face.  At  the 
foot  of  the  gang-plank  she  glanced  up,  her  eyes  racing 
eagerly  from  one  to  another  of  those  looking  down,  her 
red  lips  smiling  and  laughing  for  those  she  knew,  and  her 
gaze  sped  at  last  to  Jim  Krag.  Her  hand  snatched  at  one 
of  the  curls  on  her  breast. 

She  was  Maisie  Hacklette. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

The  Sequel  in  the  Skillet 

A  GROANING  of  timbers,  a  lapping  of  waters, 
and  the  little  stern  wheeler  began  to  nose  her 
way    over    the    lake.     The    holiday    makers 
roamed  the  deck.     Groups  melted  into  other  groups. 
Everybody  wanted  to  exhaust  the  reunion's  capacity  for 
surprise.     The  very  next  face  beaming  one's  way  might 
be  of  yet  another  old  school-fellow  lost  since  ranks  broke 
at  graduation. 

Jim  Krag  stayed  where  he  was.  Indeed,  where  he 
became  headquarters  for  the  short  dozen  of  his  class. 
He  stayed,  waiting  for  a  pair  of  large  blue  eyes.  Cal- 
culation iced  over  fever  and  throbbing.  If  human  hearts 
were  a  commodity,  she  would  bring  hers  to  him,  shyly. 
If  like  a  thug  he  clutched  for  it,  she  would  flee,  trembling 
in  the  sudden  knowledge  that  she  possessed  one. 
Awakened  instinct  would  hide  it  for  her,  to  make  it  the 
more  desired. 

"Heigh-o,"  cried  the  sergeant,  "there's  Maisie  Hack- 
lette.  Isn't  she  the  young  lady,  though,  the  delicious 
dear?  Maisie!  Oh,  Maisie!  Does  any  one  suppose 
she  has  gone  deaf?  " 

Maisie  was  passing  the  pilot  house,  chatting  vivaciously 
with  the  man  and  the  other  girl.  She  did  not  see  the 

40 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  41 

pilot  house.  She  was  unaware  of  pilot  houses.  Yet  the 
cheek  toward  the  pilot  house  burned.  She  felt  it  burn- 
ing. Her  high  spirits  hurried  her  on,  and  she  hurried 
on  her  two  companions.  But  the  other  girl's  ears  and 
eyes  were  better  than  Maisie's.  She  looked  round, 
hearing  Maisie's  name,  and  caught  Maisie's  arm.  Then 
Maisie  had  to  look.  She  saw  only  the  sergeant.  She 
was  tremendously  surprised  and  delighted,  and  she  ran 
up  and  kissed  the  sergeant.  Her  animation  rose.  So 
also  did  the  traitress  shell  pink  in  her  cheeks. 

When  she  paused  for  breath,  the  sergeant  wanted  to 
present  the  ignored  Archie  and  the  ignored  Doctor  Krag. 
And  now  that  the  huge  creatures  were  visible,  Maisie 
declared,  oh,  but  she  knew  them  already,  and  wasn't 
it  just  fine,  meeting  old  friends  again  this  way,  and  —  and, 
oh,  how  horrid  of  her !  —  Miss  Sommerville  —  and  Mr. 
Savedge. 

Still  she  had  not  actually  looked  at  Krag.  Her  lashes 
were  long,  and  as  a  veil  they  were  adequate. 

Miss  Sommerville  protested  that  she,  Miss  Sonimer- 
ville,  needed  no  introduction.  She  remembered  them 
all  so  well.  From  her  freshman  year,  wasn't  it?  Yes, 
she  was  a  freshman  with  Maisie,  when  they  were  haughty 
seniors,  so  of  course  they  didn't  know  her,  then.  But  she'd 
grown  into  a  senior,  too,  and  as  she  was  class  poetess  — 
with  a  yellow  ribbon  around  the  poem  —  she  hoped  they 
must  know,  now,  who  she  was  ...  It  was  apparent 
that  Miss  Sommerville  had  a  long  tongue.  Her  high- 
keyed  inflection  made  them  feel  that  it  was  a  catty  tongue. 

For  Mr.  Savedge,  of  the  Savedges,  there  were  likewise 
a  few  adjusting  words.  They  all  had  met  him  before. 


42  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

He  conceded,  amiably,  that  he  had  met  them.  He  wore 
cool  flannels  and  white  canvas  shoes,  glasses  and  a  pan- 
ama.  He  had  an  alert  air  of  gentlemanly,  affable  com- 
posure. Mr.  Savedge  was  already  being  mentioned  for 
the  legislature. 

Miss  Sommerville,  talking  or  not  talking,  was  taking 
her  bearings.  She  had  a  sharp  nose,  which  was  her 
despair.  It  was  also  her  character.  At  present  she  was 
a  sweet  girl  graduate,  and  she  was  not  unmindful  of  the 
strategic  advantages  of  that  condition.  Her  pride  was 
her  straw-coloured  hair,  but  she  was  competent.  What 
might  there  be,  thought  Miss  Sommerville,  in  this  group 
for  Miss  Sommerville?  She  shot  a  quick  glance  at  Mr. 
Savedge.  Wherefore,  effusively,  she  began  to  lionize 
Jim  Krag. 

"  Mr.  —  oh,  Doc-tor  —  Krag,  then  you  really  are  here 
at  our  picnic  —  nuss-pas  ?" 

Jim's  lips  twitched.     "You've  noticed  it?" 

"But  Doctor  Oliver  was  saying  to  Maisie  —  you 
remember,  Maisie  dear,  yesterday  when  he  said  you 
simply  must  not  risk  this  picnic  after  all  the  agitation 
you've  had  graduating?  —  as  I  was  saying,  Doctor, 
Doctor  Oliver  was  telling  Maisie  how  amazed  he  was  at 
this  sudden  notion  of  yours  for  picnics,  seeing  that  you 
never  went  out  anywhere.  How  per-fectly  honoured  we 
all  are!  Maisie 

"  Should  obey  her  physician, "  said  Krag. 

And  as  Mr.  Savedge  was  regarding  Maisie  with  eyes 
full  of  question,  Miss  Sommerville  was  content.  Maisie, 
she  knew,  had  declined  Mr.  Savedge's  invitation  to  the 
picnic,  because  of  Doctor  Oliver's  warning.  Miss  Sommer- 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  43 

ville  knew  also,  and  this  she  wanted  Mr.  Savedge  to  know, 
that  Maisie's  later  acceptance  of  the  invitation  had 
followed  Doctor  Oliver's  gossip  about  his  young  assis- 
tant's sudden  notion  for  picnics.  Mr.  Savedge  meantime 
had  asked  to  take  Miss  Sommerville.  Then,  he  had 
brought  both  girls.  Miss  Sommerville  was  not  without 
spunk,  but  she  could  discern  when  spunk  might  not  avail. 
Mr.  Savedge  would  gladly  have  released  her,  and  taken 
Maisie  alone. 

Being  an  amateur  in  emotion,  the  feminine  mind  has 
an  instinct  for  sequels.  One  evening  long  ago,  an  even- 
ing of  painful  festivity,  Maisie  Hacklette  had  suffered 
an  attack  of  heart  failure  because  of  a  very  ugly  scene 
between  her  father  and  this  Jim  Krag.  Maisie  and  Jim 
Krag  had  not  met  since,  until  the  present  moment. 
Miss  Sommerville  was  good  at  surmising.  Each 
had  sought  the  present  meeting.  The  sequel  was 
in  the  skillet.  And  Miss  Sommerville  kindly  poked 
the  fire. 

The  caldron  astern  had  slacked  to  a  clear,  bubbling 
wake.  Over  the  water  were  foot-hills,  the  verdure  of 
them  spotted  royal  purple  by  wild  flowers.  Farther 
beyond  a  snow-crested  range  was  dazzling  in  the  heavens. 
This  range  was  the  summit  of  things,  far  away  and  al- 
luring. The  newly  fledged  graduates  took  that  metaphor 
to  their  souls  with  the  air  of  spring  into  their  lungs.  But 
Miss  Sommerville  spoiled  it. 

"Isn't  it  per-fectly  beautiful!"     she  cried. 

Nor  would  she  be  be  denied.  Her  yellow  eyes  turned 
up  beseechingly  to  Krag.  " Isn't  it  per-iectly  beautiful?  " 

"What  is?"     Krag  asked  absently. 


44  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Why,  you  know"  —her  thin-fingered  hand  encom- 
passed the  solar  system —  "everything." 

Krag  shook  himself  from  his  abstraction  like  a  wet 
bear.  "Is  it?  Why?" 

The  class  poetess  winced.  But  he  would  not  let  her 
off.  "Why  is  it?" 

Maisie  stared.  Even  Mr.  Savedge  stirred  in  ap- 
preciation. 

"Because,"  protested  the  cornered  girl,  "oh,  because 
it's  the  spring-tide,  and  the  flower-time,  and,  and  —  oh, 
when  everything  is  simply  bursting  into  life.  You 
know. " 

"And  glad  to  be  alive,"  said  Maisie;  of  which  she 
herself  was  the  proof,  budding,  filling  out,  throbbing. 
Krag's  level  gaze  went  to  her,  and  was  held  by  her, 
while  she  spoke.  But  the  bear  had  not  forgotten  the 
poetess.  Since  they  forced  him  to  small  talk,  they 
should  have  it. 

"Why  not  wait  till  November,"  he  asked,  "and  see 
then  which  of  your  beautiful  things  have  gorged  on  your 
other  beautiful  things?" 

"Jim  Krag!"     gasped  the  chubby  sergeant. 

"Your  spring-time,"  he  went  on,  his  mouth  twisting 
in  a  hard  way  that  was  not  like  the  old  humorous 
way,  "is  nature's  vulgarity.  It's  the  greedy  time;  the 
gaudy  time;  the  grafting,  clinging,  sucking,  strangling 
time.  Glad  to  be  alive?  Sure.  But  not  glad  that 
anything  else  is  alive. " 

"Oh,  you're  hateful,"  Maisie  half  sobbed. 

"But  the  flowers,"  cried  Miss  Sommerville,  "think 
of  the  dear  flowers!" 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  45 

"And  their  snake-like  roots,  choking  each  other.  I 
say,  let's  wait  till  fall,  when  Nature  is  tired  and  humbled. 
Then,  if  we  must  rave,  there  are  the  dear  weeds. " 

"Don't,  Jim,"  pleaded  the  sergeant.  "Surely  you 
don't  mean  you  respect  the  persistence  of  evil?" 

"Why  evil?"  he  demanded.  "Just  because  weeds 
don't  happpen  to  be  wanted  by  some  other  living  order, 
just  because  we  don't  want  'em  —  oh,  pshaw!  Mrs. 
Archie,  what  do  you  suppose  you  are,  from  the  weed  point 
of  view?  " 

The  sergeant  stamped  her  foot.   "  Weeds  are  evil,  Jim ! " 

"Until  we  find  one  good  for  something,  like  the  tomato. 
Then  we  cuddle  it,  and  keep  the  rest  of  the  vegetable 
kingdom  off  it,  and  the  animal  kingdom  too,  except  our- 
selves. What  respect  can  anybody  have  for  a  tomato 
any  more?  Here,  Maisie, "  he  said  abruptly,  "let's 
you  and  I  go  aft  and  watch  the  bubbles." 

Maisie  looked  at  him,  startled.  But  she  put  her  hand 
on  his  arm  and  went  with  him.  Her  animation  had 
left  her,  and  she  was  very  sedate,  but  inside,  all  that 
there  was  of  her  tingled  and  danced. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
Playing  to  Shudders 

ON  CLEFT  ROCK  the  one  spot  for  a  picnic  was 
across  the  cleft.  The  Rock  was  a  spruce  and 
pine  little  island  jutting  up  out  of  the  lake. 
One  side  rose  sheer  out  of  the  water,  a  bleak  precipice 
a  hundred  feet  high,  splotched  a  terra  cotta  red. 
Across  this  highest  part  the  island  was  split  cleanly  and 
fearfully  in  twain,  from  the  summit  down  to  the  lake.  A 
rustic  bridge  spanned  the  narrow  canon  thus  formed. 
On  the  other  side  Cleft  Rock  fell  away  to  the  shore,  like  a 
sugar-loaf  melting  in  a  saucer  of  water.  The  boat  made 
her  landing  on  this  side.  Bow  and  stern  ropes  were 
carried  to  stumps,  and  the  picnickers  clattered  down  the 
gang-plank. 

A  russet  trail  under  the  pines,  carpeted  with  cones  and 
needles,  wound  upward  to  the  cleft.  Girls  needed  help 
over  the  steep  places,  a  breathing  spell  in  the  cool  nooks, 
and  a  drink  at  the  spring  half  way  up.  They  required 
columbines,  and  screamed  for  help  when  the  dainty 
red  blossoms  hung  just  out  of  reach.  Young  men  carried 
the  baskets,  with  a  lessening  respect  for  their  fine  young 
strength. 

The  trail  was  as  a  legend,  trod  by  one  generation,  and 
so  saved  to  the  next.  The  first  picnickers  had  it  from  the 

46 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  47 

pioneers.  The  pioneers  had  it  from  the  Indians.  The 
Indians,  being  pursued,  had  landed  on  Cleft  Rock  from 
their  canoes,  and  rained  arrows  from  the  summit.  The 
little  path  in  the  little  wilderness  was  a  symbol.  It  was 
an  epic  of  the  pioneers. 

Crossing  the  twenty  feet  of  rustic  bridge  that  spanned 
the  cleft,  girls  would  peer  over  the  rail  into  the  gloomy 
fissure,  and  exult  in  delicious  shivers  of  fright.  Boys 
leaped  up  and  down,  to  make  the  bridge  sway. 

"I  wouldn't,"  said  Krag,  turning  round  on  them. 

"Isn't  it  safe,  really?" 

"Maybe  not  that  safe,"  said  Krag. 

He  stepped  aside,  to  let  Maisie  hasten  off  the  bridge. 
She  had  turned  white,  and  he  noted  her  sensitiveness  at 
any  suggestion  of  horror.  Her  being  was  as  simple  for 
him  as  a  key-board.  No  one  would  have  trusted  the 
hard  half-smile  on  his  lips,  and  yet  there  was  a  rapt  ten- 
derness there  that  would  have  puzzled  even  himself. 

On  the  precipice  side  of  the  cleft  a  trapper 's  abandoned 
cabin  offered  a  splendid  place  for  cookery,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, for  shelter.  It  was  of  logs,  with  a  door  and  window, 
and  a  fireplace  of  blackened  rock,  and  a  kettle  hang- 
ing by  a  chain  over  the  hearth.  Under  the  trees  outside, 
near  the  precipice  but  not  too  near,  one  contemplated  the 
lake  down  below,  and  the  foot-hills  beyond,  and  the  snow- 
clads  far  away,  and  indolently  accepted  Nature's 
pain  of  world-birth  at  par  with  the  flavour  of  a  briar 
•pipe. 

The  morning  passed,  the  feast  from  the  baskets  had 
been  spread  and  joyously  wrecked,  and  the  lazier  ones, 
a  score  or  more,  still  lounged  on  rugs  and  blankets  under 


48  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  pines,  indulging  the  sense  of  being  well  fed  and  of  the 
placid  grandeur  of  the  view.  The  others  were  scattered 
over  the  island,  exploring,  gathering  wild  flowers,  blazing 
away  at  pine  cones  with  six-shooters,  and  plaguing  the 
echoes  with  their  shouts  and  laughter. 

But  these  lazier  ones  on  their  rugs  were  Krag's  au- 
dience, though  Krag  had  a  word  only  now  and  then  and 
seemed  the  drowsiest  of  them  all.  Yet  he  played  to  shud- 
ders, deliberately.  It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  best  hour  on  the  Rock.  The  sun  glorified  the 
white  crest  of  mountains  and  the  hills  were  mirrored  in  the 
lake.  This  calmer  splendour  held  a  prophecy  of  gloom, 
when  the  wild  beauty  of  the  wilderness  must  darken  to  the 
sombre,  and,  because  it  is  grandeur,  be  subtly  appalling. 
The  feel  of  this  coming  on,  as  Krag  knew,  may  be  inex- 
plicably dreadful,  like  ghostly  forms  imagined  in  the 
twilight,  while  the  actual  black  consummation  of  night 
is  not  so  dreadful  after  all. 

Krag  wondered  idly  how  high  the  Rock  really  was, 
which  gave  to  a  venturesome  youth,  not  unmindful  of  the 
girls  there  to  see  him,  the  idea  of  trying  to  measure  the 
dizzy  fall  with  his  eye.  He  ran  to  the  edge,  circled  a  sap- 
ling with  his  arm,  and  leaned  far  over  the  cliff,  looking 
down.  His  head  swam.  He  pulled  himself  back.  They 
saw  how  pale  he  was,  and  laughed. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  cried,  to  turn  their  thoughts  from  him 
quickly,  "this  old  rock  would  have  been  pie  for  William 
Tell  and  them  fellows." 

"Those  fellows,  Ben,"  chided  Miss  Sommerville, 
who  reposed  languishingly  on  a  bear  rug  beside  Maisie. 
"But  if  William  Tell  was  scared  out  of  his  grammar  and 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  49 

looked  like  you  do  now,  when  the  Austrians  were  after 
him " 

"But  they  couldn't  have  got  him  up  here,"  the  boy 
protested  desperately;  "that's  exactly  what  I  mean. 
Oh,  ain't  —  isn't  —  it  a  shame,"  he  exclaimed  in  real  re- 
gret, "that  he  didn't  have  Cleft  Rock?  " 

"Still,  couldn't  the  Austrians  get  up  here  at  all?" 
asked  the  kind-hearted  sergeant. 

"You  bet  they  couldn't.  Not  if  the  bridge  was 
down." 

"Or,"  suggested  Krag,  "Mr.  Tell  might  let  'em  come 
crowding  on  the  bridge,  and  then  —  crash!  —  cut  her 
loose." 

The  word  "crash,"  itself  crashing  through  his  indolent 
drawl,  made  them  start.  Maisie  uttered  a  little  cry. 
Krag  did  not  seem  to  notice.  Then  they  all  laughed 
again. 

"However,"  said  Mr.  Savedge  indulgently,  while  he 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,  "wouldn't  it  all  de- 
pend —  rather  —  on  the  enterprise  of  the  attacking 
force?  Suppose  you  young  people  reflect  that,  first  — 

"Listen  to  the  board  of  strategy,"  scoffed  Ben,  the 
recently  venturesome  youth. 

"Rah-rah,  listen,"  whispered  the  rooter  chief. 

Then  the  objections:     "How  much  enterprise  would 
it  take  to  climb  that  bluff?"  —  "Or  up  the   cleft?"  - 
"Or  to  run  and  jump  across?" 

Mr.  Savedge  puffed  composedly  on  his  cigar.  "Re- 
flect first,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  "that  all  the  enter- 
prise they'd  need  would  be  to  go  on  home  to  dinner,  and 
leave  Mr.  Tell  up  here  on  the  Rock,  with  the  bridge  down, 


50  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

where  our  Doctor  Krag  has  isolated  him  so  neat  and 
snug." 

Miss  Sommerville  applauded  softly  with  her  finger 
tips.  "It  looks  as  though  it  was  up  to  Doctor  Krag  to 
get  him  off,"  she  said,  tittering. 

"Pshaw,  he  could  jump  off  into  the  lake,"  argued 
Ben. 

"Reprehensible,  very,"  objected  Mr.  Savedge.  " He 'd 
hit  on  the  rocky  beach." 

"No  he  wouldn't,  not  if  he  could  jump  out  eight  or 
nine  feet.  Would  he?"  the  boy  appealed  to  Krag. 

"I  don't  believe,"  said  Krag,  "that  a  rickety  invalid 
could  jump  eight  or  nine  feet." 

"Who's  talking  about  a  rickety  invalid?  Wasn't 
William  Tell " 

"William  would  be  rickety  enough  when  he'd  try  to 
make  that  jump." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why?" 

"Because,  Benny,  he'd  keep  on  waiting  for  his  friends 
or  some  other  chance  to  get  him  off,  and  he  'd  be  starving 
all  the  time,  and  when  he'd  finally  see  that  he  had  to 
jump " 

"He'd  be  too  weak  to  wrastle  a  rooster,"  cackled  the 
rooter  chief. 

There  was  a  laugh,  but  the  laugh  died  away  into 
thoughtfulness.  This  Jim  Krag's  knowledge  of  human 
nature  was  a  little  bit  uncanny.  Yes,  and  unerring 
cruelty,  this  putting  a  finger  on  the  sore  that  must  in- 
evitably lose  poor  clay  its  darling  spark  of  life. 

"He'd  be  a  goner  all  right,"  Ben  dolefully  conceded. 

"It's  still  up  to  you,  Doctor  Krag,"  insisted  Miss 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  51 

Sommerville.  "You  broke  down  poor  William's  bridge, 
you  know." 

Krag  was  looking  at  Maisie.  "But  I  left  him  the  trees," 
he  said.  He  tilted  his  head  backward,  to  indicate  the 
cleft.  His  eyes  still  rested  on  Maisie,  without  her  seeing 
him.  "You  kids  study  the  trees  awhile." 

They  did  study  the  trees.  In  imagination  they 
climbed  first  one  and  then  another  on  the  edge  of  the  cleft, 
searching  a  limb  for  a  bridge  into  some  other  tree  on  the 
other  side.  There  were  two  pines,  nearly  opposite  each 
other  on  either  bank,  whose  branches  interlaced.  Krag 
admitted  that  he  had  these  two  in  mind. 

"But,  Jim,"  objected  the  rooter  chief,  "there's  no 
branch  grows  out  far  enough  for  a  man  to  climb  out  on 
and  reach  any  branch  on  the  other  side." 

"Then,"  said  Krag,  "he'd  have  to  climb  out  as  far  as 
the  branch  would  hold  him,  then  hang  by  his  hands " 

"And  the  cleft  underneath!" 

"Naturally  —  and  let  loose " 


'Don't!"  cried  Maisie.     "Oh  please 


" and  as  he  fell,  catch  one  of  the  branches  from 

the  tree  opposite." 

"And  if  he  missed?" 

"Please,  please,"  begged  Maisie,  with  her  hands  to  her 
ears. 

"William  Tell  wouldn't  miss." 

"In  other  words,"  observed  Mr.  Savedge,  "a  mythical 
hero  wouldn't.  I'm  afraid,"  he  added  courteously,  "that 
that  doesn't  solve  the  riddle.  As  Miss  Sommerville  so 
charmingly  says,  it's  still " 

"Is  it?"    Krag  retorted.     He  bolted  to  his  feet;  then 


52  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

slowly  drew  off  his  coat  and  started  toward  the  first  of 
the  two  pines. 

"The  idiot!"  said  Savedge,  leaping  up  to  stop  him. 

Yet  even  in  the  old  callow  days  Jimmy  Krag  would  have 
scorned  a  gallery  play.  Those  who  knew  him  were  at 
a  loss  to  understand. 

"What  in  the  world  —  don't  you  dare,  Jim!"  the 
chubby  sergeant  called  after  him.  Then  in  alarm  she 
cried:  "Stop,  do  you  hear?  I'm  afraid  Maisie  is 
going  to  faint!" 

He  turned.  "Aren't  you  coming?"  he  asked.  "I 
hear  the  boat's  whistle." 

So  it  was,  as  they  themselves  heard  now  that  they 
listened  for  it. 

Krag  came  back  to  them,  took  Maisie 's  two  hands, 
and  helped  her  to  her  feet.  She  patted  her  skirts  with 
fluttering  hands,  and  lifted  her  white  face  to  his, 
bravely.  The  tremour  of  laughter  was  on  her  lips.  She 
would  let  him  see  that  she  was  vexed  with  her  silly, 
palpitating  heart,  and  that  she  really  wasn't  going  to 
faint,  and  that  now  she  was  going  to  behave. 

"Rest  a  moment,"  he  ordered  briefly. 

The  others,  including  Mr.  Savedge,  remembered  that 
he  was  a  physician.  The  others,  not  including  Mr. 
Savedge,  nor  yet  Miss  Sommerville,  in  relief  gathered  up 
rugs  and  bl  .nkets  and  wild  flowers  and  started  through 
the  deepening  shade  of  the  pines  toward  the  bridge. 

Mr.  Savedge  folded  Maisie 's  bear  rug  over  his  arm, 
and  cupped  a  hand  under  Maisie 's  elbow.  He  grew  then 
aware  of  Miss  Sommerville  at  his  other  hand,  and  this 
other  hand  —  rather,  his  arm  —  he  gave  to  Miss  Som- 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  53 

merville.  Krag  followed,  alone,  the  last  of  the  pic- 
nickers. 

At  the  bridge,  which  was  narrow,  they  caught  up  with 
the  others.  The  bridge  was  crowded,  jammed,  and  every- 
body was  laughing  in  high  merriment.  "Isn't  the  crazy 
thing  swaying?"  some  one  cried  out,  half  in  earnest. 
As  Krag,  just  behind  Maisie,  bore  his  weight  on  the  first 
plank,  a  timber  cracked  like  a  pistol  shot. 

"Run,"  shouted  Krag,  "she's  going  down!" 

A  second  to  realize  —  then  screams  and  panic. 
Everybody  pushed  those  ahead,  and  the  force  of  the 
press  kept  them  on  their  feet.  The  first  off  on  the  other 
side  turned  to  drag  off  those  behind,  and  were  knocked 
over  and  out  of  the  way  by  the  rush.  The  last  over  was 
Mr.  Savedge,  who  turned  to  help  Maisie.  He  supposed 
she  was  just  behind  him.  But  there  was  no  one  just  be- 
hind him.  The  bridge  was  slipping.  He  stared  across. 
The  others,  too,  breathless  from  their  escape,  were  staring. 
At  the  far  end  they  saw  Krag  stepping  back  from  the 
bridge.  His  foot  left  the  first  plank  as  the  bridge  went 
down,  as  though  he  had  kicked  it  from  him  into  space. 
The  form  of  a  girl  drooped  lifeless  over  his  shoulder.  He 
had  put  out  an  arm  and  circled  Maisie  Hacklette's 
waist.  He  drew  her  back  with  him  as  she  swooned. 

The  picnickers  waited,  some  with  hands  clapped  to 
their  ears,  for  the  horrid  crash  at  the  bottom,  until  it 
came. 

Their  gaze  strained  again  across  the  chasm,  seeking 
Krag  and  the  girl.  They  saw  him  through  the  dusk 
under  the  pines,  a  huge,  shadowy  form,  striding  over  the 
rocks  with  his  burden. 


54  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Miss  Sommerville 's  eyes  glittered.  Mr.  Savedge 's 
mouth  opened,  and  opened  again,  and  he  yelled:  "Hey, 
stop,  where  are  you  going?" 

Krag  turned,  with  one  foot  planted  on  the  rock  ahead. 
In  the  silent  woods  he  made  a  figure  of  dark,  eerie  strength. 
The  girl 's  head  was  thrown  back  on  his  shoulder,  her  face 
and  throat  gleaming. 

"To  the  cabin,"  he  answered.     "Why? " 

"Why  yourself!"  screamed  Savedge.  "Put  her  down, 
you " 

"Mr.  Savedge,"  said  Krag,  "come  and  help  me.  It's 
her  heart.  And  hurry.  I  shall  need  you." 

He  heard  no  more,  but  hastened  on  with  her  to  the 
cabin. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

Finding  a  Man,  by  Himself 

AFTER  a  shock  of  catastrophe,  the  naive  in  heart 
instantly  and  eagerly  grope  to  justify  Provi- 
dence. Suppose  the  bridge  had  gone  down 
a  minute  sooner?  They  shuddered  at  what  might 
have  been.  They  pictured  Maisie  Hacklette  a  bruised 
pulp  on  the  rocks  at  the  bottom  of  the  cleft.  After  she 
had  escaped  that,  they  could  not  at  once  accept  the 
thought  that  the  shock  of  it  still  endangered  her  life. 
They  gazed  dumbly  across  the  black  ribbon  of  chasm  to 
the  cabin  among  the  pines.  Krag  had  made  a  fire  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  window  and  chinks  were  a  pulsating 
glow.  But  they  could  see  nothing,  and  knew  nothing, 
of  Maisie.  And  the  black  ribbon  lay  between. 

The  steam-boat's  whistle  blew  again,  calling  them. 

They  looked  at  one  another  in  dismay.  They  were 
unused  to  "situations."  What  was  expected  of  them? 
Was  there  something  fine,  something  strong  on  character, 
to  be  done?  They  were  very  willing,  but  they  were  at 
a  loss.  It  didn  't  seem  like  life  to  go  on  tamely  down  to  the 
steam-boat  and  on  home.  They  were  too  young  to  know 
that  life  was  just  that.  The  urgent  blast  reminded  them 
of  a  mother  on  the  back  porch,  her  hands  in  her  apron, 

55 


56  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

calling  them  from  play.  Did  they  have  to  go?  The 
other  picnickers,  who  had  been  scattered  over  the  island 
and  were  tired  of  waiting  at  the  boat,  came  to  see  what 
was  the  matter.  These  listened  big-eyed  and  stared 
where  the  bridge  had  been.  At  last  came  the  steam-boat 
captain  himself,  blustering. 

"Contract  was  to  leave  at  seven-thirty.  I  wheestled 
three  times." 

They  told  him,  gesturing  vividly.  When  the  tale  had 
simmered  down  to  no  lives  lost,  the  captain  emerged  again 
from  the  man.  "What  you  waiting  for  then?  Their 
tickets '11  be  good  to-morrow.  I'll  bring  the  hook  an' 
ladder  company  for  'em.  Now  the  rest  of  ye,  come  on." 

Savedge,  who  was  -moving  restlessly  back  and  forth 
on  the  edge  of  the  cleft,  stopped  and  said:  "Yes,  yes; 
the  rest  of  you  go  on.  And  the  minute  you  land,  'phone 
to  Mr.  Hacklette." 

"Then  you're  going  to  stay?"  asked  the  rooter  chief. 

Savedge  nodded. 

"I  think,"  said  the  chubby  sergeant,  "that  Archie  and 
I  will  stay  with  you." 

"Me,  too,"  declared  Ben. 

"I  simply  couldn't  think  of  leaving  Maisie,"  said  Miss 
Sommerville. 

In  the  end  the  captain  had  to  leave  a  dozen  tickets 
behind.  Those  who  remained  with  Savedge  made  a  fire 
of  pine  sticks  and  sat  around  on  logs  and  rugs  and  thought 
this  the  best  part  of  the  picnic.  As  the  night  advanced, 
the  rooter  chief  fell  asle  p  and  snored.  Others  dozed. 
Now  and  then  they  roused  themselves  to  brighten  up  the 
fire,  or  hallooed  over  to  Krag,  demanding  news  of  his 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  57 

patient.  But  no  reply  ever  came.  Thoughts  grew 
that  were  embarrassing  to  youth.  When  they  happened 
to  look  at  one  another,  after  gazing  across  at  the  cabin, 
their  glances  shifted  hastily. 

Mr.  Savedge  kept  himself  apart.  If  they  called  to 
him,  they  found  him  irritable.  His  manner  added  to  their 
disquiet.  The  way  he  paced  up  and  down  along  the 
edge  of  the  cleft  wore  on  their  nerves.  Or  if  he  stopped, 
it  was  to  set  his  glasses  on  his  nose  and  peer  fixedly  at  the 
lighted  window  of  the  cabin,  and  then  at  the  bridgeless 
gap  lying  between.  A  thousand  times,  at  a  hundred 
different  points,  he  measured  the  width  of  gap  with  his 
eye.  Over  and  over  again  he  decided  once  more  which 
was  the  narrowest  place.  Not  twenty  feet  —  maybe 
only  sixteen  or  seventeen  .  .  .  But  what  was  the 
difference?  A  man  couldn't  jump  it.  No,  a  man  couldn't 
jump  it.  But  Mr.  Savedge  never,  as  yet,  lifted  his 
eyes  upward.  He  restrained  himself,  steadfastly,  from 
lifting  his  eyes  upward.  He  tried  not  to  hear  the  soft 
murmuring  among  the  boughs  overhead. 

At  last,  unutterably  weary  of  the  grooved  circle  where 
his  mind  toiled,  he  did  look  up,  and  looked  up  defiantly, 
as  though  to  challenge  a  grimacing  goblin  perched  high 
in  the  branches.  He  shoved  his  glasses  tight  and  studied 
deliberately  the  two  tall  pines  that  they  had  picked  out 
that  afternoon  for  William  Tell.  In  fancy  Mr.  Savedge 
gained  the  lowest  limb  of  the  tree  on  his  side  the  cleft. 
The  limb  mocked  him,  it  was  so  easy  to  reach.  He 
climbed  to  the  biggest  limb.  The  ease  of  that  also  seemed 
provided  by  Satan.  A  parallel  branch  overhead  was  just 
high  enough  to  hold  to,  while  he  edged  out  as  far  as  he 


58  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

could  on  the  biggest  limb.  Then,  in  fancy  always, 
though  breathing  desperately  just  the  same,  he  even 
lowered  himself  and  hung  at  arm 's  length.  Mechanically 
the  next  thing  was  the  easiest  of  all :  to  let  go.  But  he 
could  not  let  go. 

Another  thousand  times,  in  fancy  always,  he  got  that 
far.  But  he  could  not  let  go. 

The  chaperon  had  been  watching  him,  and  once,  as 
he  paused  and  was  looking  up,  she  went  to  him.  "You 
—  you  couldn't  do  it,  of  course?"  she  faltered.  It  was 
hardly  a  question.  Yet  a  wan  inflection  of  hope  did 
make  it  a  question,  too. 

He  started,  as  though  awakened,  glaring  at  her. 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,"  she  murmured  hurriedly. 


CHAPTER  NINE 
As  One  Would  Humanize  Paradise 

WITHIN  the  cabin,  Krag  was  not  aware  of  the 
hallooing.     He  had  achieved  the  faculty,  which 
dominated  even  his  physical  senses,  of  shutting 
out  as  much  of  the  world  as  lay  outside  his  purposes. 
He  knew  that  no  one  could  come  to  him.     That  sufficed. 
The  picnickers  were  forgotten. 

On  the  floor  of  the  cabin,  to  one  side  of  the  fireplace, 
he  had  strewn  pine  needles  thickly,  covering  them  with 
a  Navajo  blanket.  He  had  brought  the  blanket  with 
him  in  his  canvas  telescope.  It  was  odd  about  this  tele- 
scope. He  had  left  it  here  in  the  cabin  during  the  day, 
and  had  apparently  forgotten  it  when  he  and  everybody 
started  back  to  the  boat. 

On  the  blanket  lay  Maisie  Hacklette,  and  Krag  was 
kneeling  beside  her.  Between  his  big  thumb  and  fore- 
finger he  gently  pressed  the  lobe  of  her  ear,  the  while 
watching  confidently  for  the  first  tint  of  dawning  life. 
He  looked  as  well  on  the  white,  sweet  face,  and  he  was  not 
then  the  physician.  A  strange  softness  lay  deep  in  his  eyes. 
Those  who  had  known  him  during  the  past  three  years 
would  have  said  that  they  were  no  more  his  own  eyes. 
He  would  have  said  so  himself. 

59 


60  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

He  had  done  already  what  was  immediately  needed 
to  be  done.  An  odour  of  drugs  hung  over  them.  There 
were  restoratives,  all  but  deadly  to  the  normal  heart. 
There  was  a  medicine  case  laid  open,  and  vials  strapped 
down  in  a  row  like  shrouded  pixies.  There  were  instru- 
ments, bright,  metallic,  tubular,  solid,  of  mysterious 
shapes  and  functions;  to  the  lay  apprehension  the  trap- 
pings of  a  star-chamber.  The  edged  ones  were  unstained; 
they  had  not  been  used.  Out  of  the  canvas  telescope  had 
come  surplusage  of  foresight.  Lacking  experience, 
he  was  more  than  ready.  Water  steamed  in  the  kettle. 
Some  had  been  splashed  on  the  hearth.  A  wet  and  sod- 
den blanket  lay  near,  folded  into  a  compress. 

A  button-hole  of  the  girl's  light  blue  dress  gaped  at 
her  shoulder,  revealing  a  flake  of  linen,  like  snow,  be- 
neath. It  was  one  button  that  he  had  overlooked  when 
his  harsh  ministry  was  done.  Hands,  eyes,  brain,  and 
blood  were  impersonal  then.  But  the  button  was  a  dis- 
turbing magnet  now.  He  put  out  his  hand,  and  drew  the 
hand  back  again.  These  were  not  the  deft,  probing  fin- 
gers of  the  glorified  mechanic  of  ten  minutes  ago.  He 
lifted  one  of  the  two  brown  curls  lying  across  her  breast^ 
and  laid  it  over  the  buttonless  button-hole.  Neither 
was  she  a  broken  mechanism.  She  was  the  radiant  bit 
of  girlhood,  now  peacefully  sleeping,  whom  he  had  seen 
coming  aboard  the  boat  that  morning. 

The  little  pump  was  at  its  work  again.  Valiantly 
now  it  buffeted  inertia  that  would  dam  the  vital  stream. 
So  the  poor  heart,  mercifully  given  rest  between  its 
throbs  yet  coaxed  to  beat  with  vigour,  fought  off  the 
Doisons  that  stifled,  and  hastened  red  wine  to  the  thirst- 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  61 

ing  tissues.  The  bluish  chill  faded  from  her  skin,  and 
through  and  through  the  flesh  glowed  in  ruddy  warmth. 

"I  know  enough,  poor  child,"  he  murmured.  "You 
will  not  have  to  suffer  another  of  these." 

He  said  it  in  all  confidence,  though  the  ink  was  still 
green  on  his  diploma.  Blood  had  run  through  veins  since 
the  creation  of  flesh,  but  during  many  thousand  years  men 
thought  it  the  ooze  of  stagnant  gutters.  Krag  marvelled 
at  the  colossal  stupidity  of  his  species.  A  charcoal 
burner  hiring  a  wood  sawyer  could  tell  by  listening  if  the 
sawyer  were  at  his  work.  But  no  wise  man  thought  to 
listen  to  the  heart,  until  more  centuries  were  added  to 
the  thousands  of  years.  The  young  physician  did  not 
grovel  before  past  achievement.  He  tirelessly  searched 
his  own  brain  for  common-sense. 

"Three  years  of  my  life,"  he  mused.  "Anyhow,  no 
matter  what  fiends  I  gave  them  to,  they  were  well  given 
if  she  is  not  to  suffer  another  of  these." 

He  turned  his  head  from  her,  and  with  his  head  so 
turned  he  got  to  his  feet,  and  went  to  the  fire.  He  went 
noiselessly,  and  stood,  gazing  down  at  the  fire.  He 
would  not  have  her  awake  yet  to  the  memory  of  the  horror 
at  the  bridge.  His  strategy  was  to  prolong  oblivion, 
changing  it  from  syncope  to  refreshing  slumber. 

The  hours  passed  like  that,  she  asleep,  he  looking  down 
at  the  fire,  and  the  pines  faintly  rustling  outside. 

Her  eyes  opened,  lifting  sleep's  voluptuous  weight. 
Slowly  they  grew  big  with  the  wonder  of  this  awakening. 
A  cabin  in  the  woods,  a  firelight  drowsily  rising  and  falling, 
a  watchful  guardian  by  the  fire!  It  was  all  one  with  the 
blissful  ease  of  her  body.  Languor  blurred  the  sense  of 


62  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

alarm.  When  he  brought  her  something  in  a  cup,  a 
something  that  sent  a  delicious  warmth  through  her  veins, 
she  thought  his  being  there  and  doing  that  the  natural 
thing.  It  was  the  essence  of  routine,  as  one  would  ideal- 
ize routine,  or  as  one  would  humanize  Paradise.  They 
were  out  camping,  he  and  she,  that  was  it;  and  he,  as  he 
ought,  had  made  the  coffee  while  she  slept.  She  sighed 
dreamily.  Horror  was  remote.  Once  a  bridge  had  fallen. 
So  had  ancient  monarchies.  She  would  not  fret  about 
history,  now  that  she  had  graduated.  She  believed  she 
would  sleep  a  little  mite  longer. 

He  leaned  over  and  tucked  her  pulse  under  his  thumb. 
"Precisely  as  strong  as  fate,"  he  said  to  himself.  Phy- 
sicians need  make  nothing  of  that  diagnosis.  Very  likely 
he  meant  that  the  pulse  was  normal.  Or  that  here  trem- 
bled his  own  thread  of  destiny.  His  breast  filled;  then, 
as  before,  he  turned  his  head  from  her,  arose,  and  went 
to  the  fire. 

When  she  stirred  again:  "Like  some  toast,  buttered 
hot?"  he  asked. 

So,  she  thought,  the  routine  was  still  going  on.  And 
natural?  It  seemed  as  though  it  had  been  going  on  for 
months  and  years.  And  comfy?  Yes,  and  comfy!  Yes, 
yes,  indeed ! 

"Buttered  nice  and  hot,"  said  she  contentedly. 

Every  vestige  of  the  sick  room  was  gone.  Not  the 
faintest  hospital  taint  was  left.  The  fragrance  of  the 
woods  filled  the  cabin,  and  when  he  brought  the  toast, 
there  was  the  soothing  fragrance  of  that  also.  She  braced 
her  palms  to  the  blanket,  and  sat  up,  curling  her  feet 
under  her  skirts,  and  held  forth  a  hand  for  the  plate. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  63 

But  she  only  groped  for  the  plate,  not  seeing  it.  What 
had  come  into  his  eyes,  into  his  tired  gray  eyes? 

"Your  eyes  —  they  are  so  —  so  kind?"  she  murmured 
wonderingly. 

But  there  was  in  them  a  quality  more  appealing  yet; 
the  appeal  of  a  man's  loneliness,  and  to  her.  It  smote 
her  with  a  sublime  and  terrible  pathos.  She  might  hun- 
ger for  his  strength  to  enfold  and  cherish  her,  yet  hide 
the  hunger.  But  this  was  his  weakness,  and  the  hunger 
to  comfort  him  she  could  not  hide.  Before  she  knew, 
tears  blinded  her,  and  her  arm  went  round  his  neck,  and 
her  lips  touched  his  forehead. 

The  plate  fell,  and  his  arm  stretched  past  her  and  bent 
toward  her  waist.  But  there  it  stopped,  quivering  from 
corded  muscles,  without  touching  her.  He  stood  up 
quickly,  and  looked  about  him. 

He  found  himself  at  the  door,  where  he  turned  and  saw 
that  she  was  watching  him.  Her  lips  were  parted,  and 
the  old  pallor  was  spreading  on  her  brow.  He  recollected 
himself  angrily,  and  came  back  to  her. 

"How  about  another  little  nap?"  he  ordered  gently. 
"Here,  a  sup  or  two  more  of  this." 

She  drank  unquestioningly.     "  Where  were  you  going?  " 

"  Why,  Maisie  girl,  don 't  you  see  our  wood  is  all  gone?  " 

He  stirred  the  fire,  and  waited.  It  was  only  when 
she  slept  again  that  he  fled. 

Savedge  noticed  him  first,  coming  down  the  rocky 
path  toward  the  cleft.  Savedge 's  muttered  exclamation 
roused  the  others,  who  got  up  stiffly,  blinking  through  the 
drab  mist  of  daybreak  at  the  haggard,  hugely  magnified 
figure  across  the  gorge. 


64  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

They  did  not  understand  for  a  moment,  but  when  un- 
derstanding flashed  on  them,  they  could  not  believe. 
Several  cried  out.  "Stop!"  "Don't,  don't!"  "Wait." 
Some  covered  their  eyes,  others  could  only  stare.  They 
stared  higher  and  higher  as  Krag  climbed  a  tall  pine  and 
went  out  on  one  of  the  branches,  over  the  cleft.  When 
the  branch  bent  with  a  cracking  sound,  they  shivered. 
When  he  let  go,  a  girl  screamed.  But  no  one  heard  that. 
The  heard  the  brief  rush  of  his  body  through  twigs  and 
leaves.  They  saw  him  swaying,  by  one  elbow  hooked 
over  a  lower  limb.  When  he  alighted  among  them, 
they  breathed  again. 

Savedge  went  up  to  him.  "You  blackguard,"  he  said, 
choking,  "you  .  .  .  why  couldn't  you  have  come 
last  night,  before  —  before " 

"And  leave  my  patient?"  To  make  precisely  that 
necessity  of  remaining  with  her,  Krag  had  studied  medi- 
cine, had  given  the  three  years.  But  he  did  not  say  so. 
They  could  have  seen  it  in  his  twisted  smile.  "I  won- 
der you  people,  and  you,  Mr.  Savedge,"  he  added t 
his  smile  twisting  because  of  this  contemplation  of  futility, 
"didn't  bring  up  the  gang-plank  from  the  boat.  With 
block  and  tackle  it  would  have  been  a  simple  matter  to 
swing  one  end  across  for  a  bridge.  I  —  at  the  last  I 
needed  help,  badly." 


CHAPTER  TEN 

A  Society  Item 

THEY  had  to  wait  for  the  boat  before  they  could 
have  the  gang-plank. 
When  the  boat  came,  in  the  first  hour  of  dawn, 
it  bore  the  character  of  an  important  relief  expedition, 
fitted  out,  hurried,  and  derided  by  Mr.  Hacklette.  Mr. 
Hacklette  was  a  distressed  parent,  suddenly  in  the  public 
eye.  The  obligations  of  pose  exacted  by  that  camera, 
like  the  meat  of  greatness  set  before  Charles  V  in  Her- 
nani,  were  matter  to  fill  a  paunch.  The  public  eye's 
incarnation  was  the  Morning  News  man  and  the  Javelin 
man,  who  were  doing  dog  watch  at  police  headquarters 
when  word  of  the  Cleft  Rock  accident  reached  town. 
Mr.  Hacklette  was  short  and  severe  with  these  two  re- 
porters, in  what  he  fancied  to  be  the  manner  of  a  greatly 
pestered  magnate. 

No,  there  was  positively  nothing  that  he  could  tell 
them.  The  accident  was  nothing  that  could  interest 
the  public.  They  must  say  nothing  about  it.  They 
must  not  mention  his  name.  He  refused  to  be  quoted, 
before  they  asked  him  to  be.  He  bit  off  his  words,  and 
made  it  plain  that  they  annoyed  him  very  much 
indeed. 

65 


66  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"And  the  old  boy  isn't  an  advertiser,  hoo-ray!"  they 
chirruped  inwardly.  They  jabbed  pungent  key  words 
on  the  margins  of  the  morning  paper. 

"Get  that  capital  L,"  interjected  Mr.  Hacklette. 
"Capital  D,  e,  capital  L,  period  —  F.  DeL.  Hacklette." 

" I've  got  it  'Delavan, '"  said  the  News  man,  which  it 
really  was. 

"Put  it  the  way  I  tell  you;  no,  leave  my  name  alone. 
What  are  you  writing,  anyway?" 

"Story  of  'One  Man  in  a  Boat' — count  'em,"  said 
the  Javelin  man  inaudibly. 

Yet  there  were  also  on  board  four  firemen  with  ladders, 
a  number  of  the  picnickers,  and  Mrs.  Hacklette,  frankly 
weeping. 

It  was  no  trick  at  all  for  the  firemen  to  span  the  cleft 
with  their  ladder,  to  lay  on  it  a  flooring  of  boards,  to  cross 
over  and  awaken  Maisie  in  the  cabin,  and  finally  to  lead 
her,  blindfolded,  over  the  improvised  bridge  and  into 
her  mother 's  arms.  Mr.  Hacklette's  own  moist  eyes  put 
him  into  a  scowling  humour. 

Maisie,  with  an  arm  about  her  mother 's  waist,  clinging 
to  her  father's  hand,  looked  round  on  her  young  friends. 
In  tears  and  laughter  she  would  make  them  a  part  of  the 
scene,  and  a  part  of  her  happiness.  Happiness?  Why 
was  she  so  happy?  Like  a  presentiment  of  something 
lost,  this  was  a  presentiment  of  something  found.  But 
what? 

Slowly  a  bewildering  memory  began  to  dawn.  Her 
gaze  fluttered  wistfully  from  one  face  to  another. 
She  was  seeking  a  pair  of  eyes.  She  sought  a  return  to 
that  routine  of  his  wizardry.  Her  gaze  found  him  at  last, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  67 

silent,  alone,  apart  from  the  others.  He  was  looking  at  her, 
and  his  eyes  were  kind,  and  in  the  same  way.  Her  heart 
sang  joyfully.  Somehow  she  feared  that  they  might 
not  be. 

Krag  was  content  to  let  the  social  machinery  grind 
on.  After  three  years  he  had  brought  his  corn  to  the 
mill,  and  he  did  not  mind  waiting  a  little. 

But  for  Mr.  Savedge  there  was  sand  and  discord  in  the 
wheels.  Miss  Sommerville  's  countenance,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  of  a  saint  listening  to  the  music  of  golden  harps. 

These  three  stood  watching,  each  alert  for  the  signifi- 
cant. When  Maisie,  after  her  experiences  of  the  night, 
looked  for  Krag  first  among  those  around  her  and  flushed 
on  meeting  his  eyes,  then  did  the  Sommerville  brows 
arch,  and  the  Savedge  brows  contract  in  a  puzzled  and 
troubled  way.  Mr.  Savedge  was  obviously  in  an  anguish 
of  self-debate.  He  had  to  gather  resolution  for  a  matter 
abhorrent  to  his  affable  nature.  When  at  last  he  touched 
Mr.  Hacklette  on  the  elbow  and  drew  him  to  one  side, 
and  talked  with  him,  at  first  warily,  then  heatedly,  even 
obstinately;  when  Mr.  Hacklette  spluttered  with  ex- 
plosive incredulity  and  turned  pea  green;  when  finally 
the  proud  rigidity  of  the  Hacklette  countenance  broke  to 
a  ghastly  twitching  —  then  Miss  Sommerville 's  harps 
rose  in  a  brilliant  and  surpassing  diapason  of  malice. 
She  flashed  on  Krag  a  glance  of  enraptured  admiration. 
Krag  did  not  see  it.  He  knew  that  he  would  not  have  to 
wait  much  longer. 

The  picnickers  were  doing  an  enormous  amount 
of  chattering.  Those  who  stayed  had  much  to  tell 
those  who  came  back  on  the  boat.  They  marvelled 


68  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

together  over  Jim  Krag's  mythical-hero  exploit  of  the 
two  pines.  They  felt  that  they  talked  to  a  larger  au- 
dience because  of  the  two  reporters,  though  they  won- 
dered if  those  nonchalant  bystanders  were  even  listening. 
That  nonchalance  should  have  been  to  them  as  red  lan- 
terns, fire  bells,  and  fog  horns.  The  reporters  knew  that 
a  good  story  was  dropping. 

"Eh?  —  Oh,  sure  I  believe  it,"  protested  the  Javelin 
man.  "That's  all  we 're  allowed  to  believe,  what  we  hear. 
Nifty  little  climb,  too.  Spells  it  C-r  —  Oh,  with  a  K, 
thank  you.  —  But,  what  was  he  in  such  a  hurry  about, 
this  Krag  man?  Couldn  't  he  wait  for  the  fire  department, 
same  as  the  girl?" 

The  News  man  picked  up  a  stick  a  little  bit  hastily, 
and  whittled.  Both  hid  a  growing  ferocity  of  impatience. 
But  there  was  no  answer,  because  no  one  knew  it  except 
Krag.  The  reporters  feared  that  they  had  alarmed  their 
magpies.  The  Javelin  man  tried  to  restore  the  era  of  confi- 
dence by  matching  the  News  man  for  his  last  cigarette. 

"My,  it  does  seem  odd,  don't  it?"  said  venturesome 
Benny,  anxious  to  interest  the  worldly  gentlemen  of  the 
press.  "Risked  killing  himself  like  that,  and  couldn't 
wait  an  hour  or  two  longer,  after  waiting  across  there  all 
night,  too  .  .  .  Ouch,  I  say  .  .  ." 

Gloved  fingers  were  fastened  on  his  arm,  Mr.  Hack- 
lette's  gloved  fingers.  The  boy  was  at  sea  before  the 
man 's  agitated  face  and  working  jaws. 

"  Shut  your  fool  mouth ! "  But  it  was  at  the  reporters 
that  Hacklette  looked  fire  and  sword. 

"Oh  well,  it's  your  cigarette,"  the  News  man  was  saying 
to  the  Javelin. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  69 

Cried  Hacklette:  "If  you  dare  print  one  — 

"They  won't,"  spoke  a  hard,  impersonal  voice  over 
his  shoulder;  "if  there  isn't  a  story,  they  won't.  I  don 't 
suppose,"  Krag  went  on  to  the  reporters,  "that  Mr. 
Hacklette  has  told  you  yet  that  his  daughter  Maisie  and 
I  will  be  married  this  evening.  That 's  before  your  papers 
go  to  press,  you  know." 

"Eh?     .     .     .     Eh? "  Hacklette  ejaculated. 

"But  he  will  tell  you  in  good  time,"  Krag  added. 

The  News  man  threw  up  his  hands.  He  was  game. 
"You're  right,  Doc,"  he  moaned,  "that  does  kill  it. 
Just  as  we  grab  off  a  story,  you  slip  us  a  society  item. 
Oh,  thanks!" 

"Awfully,"  echoed  the  Javelin.  —  "I  declare,  look;  is 
this  a  fit  that  Delavan  is  going  to  have?" 

For  the  instant  Hacklette  had  not  recognized  Krag. 
The  cool  announcement  stunned  him.  Despite  all  that 
Savedge  had  just  told  him,  he  could  not  identify  the 
ominous  breadth  of  sombre  young  man  with  the  sensitive 
boy  whom  he  had  so  wantonly  degraded  three  years  before. 
Anger  in  a  meaner  nature  varies  with  its  object.  Yet 
when  he  did  recognize  Krag,  in  his  fury  he  saw  only  a 
helpless  child  again. 

"So,"  he  cried,  "you  are  the  filthy  brat  who  compro, 
mises  my " 

"  Easy,"  said  Krag.  "  But  of  course  these  gentlemen  "— 
he  indicated  the  reporters  —  "  understand  that  you  tak< 
it  all  back." 

"Damn  you,  they  understand  nothing  of  the  sort.' 

"Oh,  you  do  want  it  in  the  papers,  then?" 

"No,  no,  for  the  sake  of " 


70  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Yet  you  are  giving  them   a  story,   in  spite  of  all 


"It's  none  of  their  business,  and  I'll  have  it  out  with 
you  in  private,  you  —  you  — 

"  You  mean  you  withdraw  what  you  have  said  already?" 

"Eh?  — Yes,  of  course." 

"Then  come  with  me." 

Krag  led  down  the  trail  into  the  solitude  of  the  pines, 
Hacklette  following.  The  little  group  watched  them 
until  they  disappeared. 

"An  adjective!"  pleaded  the  Javelin  man.  "Quick, 
give  me  an  adjective!" 

The  News  man  deliberated.  "Mine  is  'consummate,'" 
he  said. 

"And  I  can't  beat  it,"  said  the  Javelin.  "Lord,  if 
we  could  run  that  lad  through  the  type-writer,  what  a 
story!" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

An  Artisan  in  Circumstance 

AHACKLETTE  followed  the  young  man  down  the 
trail,  three  ideas  grew  like  imps  in  his  brain, 
until  they  were  imps.  The  three  ideas  con- 
cerned a  pearl-handled  knife  in  his  hand  in  his  trousers' 
pocket;  the  erect,  thick  neck  of  the  young  man  ahead; 
and  murder.  Suddenly  the  imps  terrified  him. 

"Stop!"  he  said.     "This  is  far  enough." 

"Very  well,"  said  Krag,  "though  even  here,  if  you 
bellow  out  too  loud " 

"Eh!  —  Ain't  you  forgetting  who  you're  talking  to?" 

"Those  kid  gloves,"  said  Krag;  "the  way  you  wear 
them,  irritates  me.  Take  'em  off." 

Amazement  overspread  Hacklette's  face.  "What  I 
have  to  say  to  you " 

"Take  them  off." 

Hacklette  looked  into  dulled  gray  eyes  shot  through 
with  hatred.  But  Hacklette  was  most  astounded  when 
he  perceived  himself  drawing  off  the  gloves,  mechanically, 
yet  in  a  kind  of  nervous  haste.  He  tried  to  believe  that 
he  was  merely  humouring  an  uncouth  ruffian. 

"Now,"  said  Krag,  "what?" 

Hacklette  stiffened  at  the  tone.  He  brought  the 

71 


72  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

well-known  frown  between  his  eyes.  The  nice  adjust- 
ment of  personality  had  been  lost,  somehow,  but  he 
would  put  that  right  again.  He  remembered,  out  of 
a  dizzily  receding  past,  that  this  was  only  sullen  little 
Yellow  Jaunders. 

"You  know  well  enough  what!  First  there's  Savedge, 
the  aristocratic  pup,  the  — 

"What  about  Savedge? " 

"A  plenty  about  Savedge,  the  skut!  He  comes  to  me, 
Savedge  does,  just  now,  and  he's  sorry,  and  he's  changed 
his  mind,  and  after  what's  happened  last  night  he  really 
cain't  think  of  my  daughter  in  the  same  way  any  more." 

Mr.  Hacklette  stopped.  Tears  of  common  human 
rage  strained  for  release.  The  white  insolence  of  his 
brow  flooded  red,  a  plebeian  red,  as  vulgar  as  blood,  as 
vulgar  as  a  father's  heart. 

"I  see,"  said  Krag.     "Why  don't  you  make  him?" 

"What?     Marry  her?" 

"Make  him  marry  her,  yes." 

Hacklette  laughed  bitterly.  "Maybe  you  could  make 
him?" 

Krag's  mouth  twisted;  as  he  had  sneered  at  Savedge, 
as  he  sneered  at  futility. 

"Could  you?"  persisted  Hacklette. 

"Yes,  if  I  set  my  mind  to  it." 

An  absurd  Hope  crossed  the  father's  despair.  "Do 
it,"  he  cried,  "and  I'll  give  you  ten  thousand  dollars." 

Krag  shook  his  head. 

"Twenty  thousand.     You've  got  to." 

"No." 

"Why   not?" 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  73 

"One  reason  is  enough.    Maisie  doesn't  want  him." 

"How  do  you  know  she  don't?" 

"  She  told  me  so.     She  refused  him  yesterday  morning. " 

"Fiddlesticks!  That  ain't  a  reason.  See  here,  some- 
how I  believe  you  can  make  him,  and  you  got  to. 
It's  your  fault,  and  you  got  to.  I'll  give  you  a  hun- 
dred thousand,  flat  and  cold." 

"No,"  said  Krag,  "there's  another  reason.  I  want 
her  myself." 

"You  —  thief!"  Hacklette  raged.  "You  think  you'll 
get  it  all.  You  think  —  but  I'll  not  leave  her  a  dollar, 
not  a " 

"No,"  said  Krag,  correcting  him;  "you'll  not  have 
one  to  leave." 

Even  a  maniac,  hurling  himself  against  a  stone  wall, 
will  come  to  have  a  respect  for  the  wall.  Mr.  Hacklette 
looked  this  poor  widow's  son  over  more  carefully.  He 
began  to  suspect  that  there  was  more  here  than  he  under- 
stood. He  doubted  if  it  were  stupidity  after  all  that  had 
caused  the  young  doctor  to  compromise  his  daughter. 
Was  it  avarice,  taking  advantage  of  an  accident  to  en- 
snare an  heiress?  As  Hacklette  met  the  glitter  of  the 
dull  eyes,  he  questioned  even  the  accident  itself.  Was 
it  an  accident? 

"What  —  what  do  you  want?"  he  stammered. 

He  saw  a  gleam  of  humour  in  the  level  gaze.  "Thank 
you,"  said  Krag,  "I  take  what  I  want.  But  I'm 
still  waiting  for  what  you  have  to  say  to  me. " 

Hacklette  flung  out  his  arms.  "There  is  nothing  to 
say,"  —  his  voice  broke  and  trembled,  as  the  boy's  had 
done  three  years  ago  —  "nothing,  nothing,  except  that 


74  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

you  have  got  to  marry  her.  I  —  I  guess  you  can  under- 
stand that?" 

"Yes,  I've  understood  it  for  three  years." 

"For  three  years?"  Hacklette  repeated.  "Surely," 
he  gasped,  *  you  ain't  been  planning  this  all  this  time! 
And  —  and  all  because  of  something  I  happened  to  say 
about  your  mother " 

"Don't!" — Krag's  fist  was  raised  —  "I've  already 
promised  to  ruin  you.  I  promise  it  again,  for  the  next 
time  we  meet.  But  I've  tried  not  to  kill  you.  Don't 
—  make  me !  It's  the  one  kindness  in  this  world  I  ask 
of  you." 

"It's  —  it's  granted,"  said  Hacklette,  breathing 
heavily.  "And  —  oh,  no,  don't  mention  it." 

"The  safest  way,"  said  Krag  earnestly,  "is  not  to  let 
me  see  you  again.  You'd  better  go  now,  and  confirm 
what  I  told  those  reporters.  I  will  wait  for  Maisie  here." 


PART  II 


THE  BROKEN  GIANT 


CHAPTER  ONE 

The  Pearl  in  the  Basin 

BUN  CHUBBUCK,  the  supernal,  was  casting  up 
figures  at  a  desk  in  the  state  of  Sonora  in  the 
republic  of  Mexico.  Mr.  Chubbuck  disdained 
a  stool,  but  stood  at  his  desk,  which  was  midriff  high, 
so  that  the  desk  might  have  been  a  lectern  and  Bunny 
a  surpliced  cherub  behind  it.  But  figures  were  sterner 
material  than  stern  eloquence,  and  could  better  mask 
the  stern  visage  of  life,  or  compel  it  to  a  vapid,  amiable 
smirk.  Figures  were  not  ungrateful.  For  their  casting 
up,  they  exonerated  Mr.  Chubbuck  from  the  Chinaman's 
little  monthly  cuenta  at  the  mess  house.  They  laid  in 
a  monthly  pound  of  American  smoking  tobacco  for  him, 
which  was  especially  kind,  as  plug  cut  came  purse-break- 
ingly  dear  into  the  Sonora  wilderness.  They  sub- 
scribed to  a  clubbing  list  of  magazines.  They  permitted 
him  to  share  the  plaza  unembarrassed  by  his  German 
tailor  of  a  Sunday  evening  when  he  borrowed  the  metal- 
lurgist's horse  and  rode  in  to  the  serenata.  They  passed 
him  benevolently  through  the  teatro  portals  when  an 
Italian  opera  troupe  stopped  over  for  a  week.  They 
bought  him  "$75.00  U.  S.  Cur."  each  first  of  December  to 
bait  with  much  joy  the  hosiery  of  a  school  of  little  brother 

77 


78  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

and  sister  Chubs  back  home.  So  paternally  recognizant 
were  they,  indeed,  of  the  loyal  and  patient  and  beaming 
Bunny  that  they  held  promises  of  a  vacation  in  the  States, 
perhaps  in  a  year  or  so.  These  figures  were  the  infor- 
mative and  preternaturally  truthful  swarms  that  in- 
habited the  smelter  "books"  where  Bunny's  Uncle  Alec 
had  procured  Bunny  a  "job." 

Late  of  an  afternoon,  when  a  great  lazy  ball  of  fire  — 
Bunny  knew  it  was  the  sun  —  was  rolling  down  behind 
the  violet  sierra  afar  off  beyond  the  glare  of  yellow  desert, 
peppering  the  heavens  with  volcano  dust,  Bunny  usually 
strolled  from  the  mess  house  and  the  hope  of  a  third  piece 
of  the  Chinaman's  apple  pie,  and  crossed  the  compound 
to  the  row  of  cells  where,  with  the  smelter's  other  bache- 
lor Americans,  he  had  his  dwelling. 

His  quarters  were  one  of  the  cells  and  a  chair  tilted 
against  a  post  of  the  long  porch  that  shaded  the  Row. 
"Shaded"  is  correct.  Bunny  had  imported,  in  a  letter 
from  his  mother,  the  seed  of  an  abstemious  gourd.  The 
Row  backed  on  the  flue,  which  lay  like  a  torpid  white 
dragon  dozing  among  the  smelter  buildings.  It  stretched 
its  length  from  the  furnaces  below,  twisting  out  of  that 
dull-roaring  inferno  upon  the  compound,  and  thus  to  the 
lone  smoke  stack  just  outside,  into  which  it  thrust  its 
head.  The  company  thought  the  snake's  warm  flank 
good  cuddling  for  American  bachelors,  especially  if  ever 
a  winter  happened  cold.  But  dust  had  settled  on 
the  photograph  of  the  girl  back  home  and  into  one's 
trunk,  while  the  dry  desert  air  bit  with  the  tang  of 
sulphurous  fumes. 

Mr.  Chubbuck  sat  in  the  tilted   chair,    put  on   his 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  79 

silver-rimmed  spectacles,  and  thought  he  would  read 
the  advertisements  in  the  last  magazine  and  smoke 
his  pipe.  There  was  an  advertisement  of  a  piano  with 
piano-player  attachment.  .  .  He  glanced  in  at  his 
narrow  cell  and  gently  turned  the  page.  Beside, 
there  was  a  girl  playing  the  piano  thing,  and  a  young 
fellow  in  a  big  arm-chair  near  by,  a  finger  curved  over 
one  eye,  dreamily  listening  to  the  music.  It  was 
very  snug  and  home-like.  It  was  too  snug  and  home- 
like! In  the  cell  two  doors  below,  the  assayer,  time- 
keeper, weigh-master,  and  sampling-mill  boss  were 
starting  an  evening's  session  at  poker.  Chips  rattled 
preparatorily,  and  what  the  young  men  were  saying  was 
what  they  had  said  last  night,  and  last  week,  and  last 
month.  Why  could  not  people  sell  pianos  without  putting 
in  such  pictures?  Bunny  lost  a  puff  at  the  pipe  and  his 
page.  The  back  of  Bunny's  head  caressed  the  post,  and 
Bunny  gazed  wistfully,  nowhere  in  particular,  unless 
at  the  smoke  curling  deadly  and  heavy  from  the  top  of 
the  smelter  stack,  and  hanging  low  over  its  purplish 
shadow  on  the  saffron  desert.  Bunny  was  thinking  that 
he'd  like  to  have  that  vacation  very  much.  Maisie  was 
up  there  —  up  there  in  the  States.  Bunny's  pipe  was 
out,  and  the  magazine  had  slipped  to  the  floor. 

It  was  as  well  to  think  of  something  else,  and  Bunny 
reflected  that  he  should  be  hearing  from  Jim  Krag  pretty 
soon  now.  Two  weeks  ago  Bunny  had  replied  to  a  letter 
from  Jim.  To  think  of  it,  Jim  being  almost  a  doctor ! 
No,  by  jinks,  he  was  one  already,  for  it  was  the  12th, 
last  week,  when  Jim  was  to  gather  in  his  M.  D.  Bunny 
had  written  Jim  that  the  smelter  surgeon  had  persuaded 


80  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  company  that  he  needed  an  assistant  surgeon.  After 
which  Bunny  had  overflowed.  How  glad  he  would  be 
to  see  Jim!  Jim  must  come,  sure  and  certain,  as  this 
was  just  the  opening  Jim  wanted,  and  it  would  be  a  great 
chance  for  him,  by  jinks,  it  would,  and  they  would  rough 
it  through  together  in  Mexico,  Jim  and  himself. 

The  smelter  surgeon,  as  it  happened  —  as  happened 
with  everybody  —  was  fond  of  Bun  Chubbuck,  and  that 
was  the  whole  secret  of  the  matter,  except  that  the 
smelter  surgeon  suspected  that  he,  the  surgeon,  was  doing 
too  much  work.  But  Bunny  was  convinced  that  any 
position,  vacant,  occupied,  or  non-existent,  would  jump 
at  Jim  Krag. 

When,  mused  Bunny,  his  dead  pipe  between  his  teeth, 
when  Jim  did  come,  Jim  and  he  would  do  heaps  in  the 
way  of  chatting  here  of  an  evening  behind  the  gourd  vines, 
and  they'd  talk  of  those  old  days  back  at  school,  and  how 
Jim,  the  rascal,  got  that  medal  away  from  him,  and  — 
now  here  was  the  bottom  of  it  with  Bunny,  the  pearl 
in  the  basin  —  and  perhaps  Jim  had  been  seeing  Maisie 
frequently  —  Bunny  hoped  so  —  and  Jim  would  tell 
him  about  Maisie,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  long  evening 
they  would  talk  of  Maisie.  .  .  .  Maisie! 

A  week  later  Doctor  Krag  arrived,  and  Mr.  Chubbuck 
met  him  at  the  train,  and  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Krag. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

Old  Supernal 

IN  HALF  an  eye  poor  cherubic  Bunny  perceived 
—  rather,  in  half  a  heart  throb,  he  felt  —  that 
Maisie  was  afraid  of  her  husband.  In  the  other 
half,  he  almost  knew  that  he,  Bunny,  was  also  afraid  of 
him. 

Bunny  was  wedged  into  the  usual  swart,  sweating, 
odorous  and  clamouring  throng  of  Mexicans  that  surged 
to  the  coach  platforms  when  the  train  emerged  from 
the  glare  of  the  desert  upon  the  arid  patch  of  station 
gardening. 

Bunny's  narrow-brim  straw  hat,  inadequate,  gro- 
tesquely jaunty,  the  style  of  a  yesteryear  back  home,  rode 
above  the  maelstrom  of  peaked  sombreros.  Bunny 
craned  his  long  neck  as  each  passenger  appeared  in  the 
sleeping  car  door,  and  he  had  to  look  twice  to  be  sure 
that  the  heavy,  gray-clad  young  man  with  squared, 
gaunt,  clean-shaven  features  was  really  Jimmy  Krag. 
Krag,  filling  the  door-way,  cast  one  indifferent  glance 
abroad  over  Mexico,  and  recognized  the  beaming  grin 
under  the  jaunty  straw  hat.  The  granite  features  broke 
to  a  smile.  Krag's  smile  had  affection  in  it,  though  it 
was  a  contemptuous  affection.  Bunny's  face  was  al- 

81 


82  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

ready  the  rapturous  grin  just  mentioned.  His  old 
school-mate  stood  for  all  that  he  had  left  behind  —  his 
boyhood,  of  which  the  memory  was  the  great  treasured 
thing  in  this  later  existence  that  was  empty  necessity  of 
living.  He  fought  through  the  leather-aproned  cargadores 
mobbing  the  train,  pulled  himself  up  the  steps,  and 
grabbed  Jim's  hand.  Bunny  could  have  been  laying  a 
parcel  —  the  same  being  his  soul  wrapped  up  —  in 
Krag's  absent-minded,  crushing  grip  of  fist. 

There  was  some  one  behind  Jim,  eclipsed  in  the  door- 
way by  Jim's  bulk.  Across  Jim's  shoulder  Bunny  saw 
a  white  flowing  tourist  veil  covering  a  leghorn  hat.  Jim 
stepped  out,  and  Bunny  discovered  that  Jim  had  not 
come  alone. 

For  the  instant  Bunny  was  so  glad  to  see  her  that  it 
did  not  matter  how  or  why  she  was  there.  His  gladness 
would  not  let  him  think  or  realize.  The  first  joyful  intake 
of  breath  came  first. 

Krag  read  his  face,  for  it  was  plainly  written  there, 
and  over  his  own  passed  surprise,  amusement,  and  a 
kind  of  grim  pity.  The  sapient  look  went  to  Maisie. 
Maisie's  greeting  smile  was  the  sunshine.  She  had  al- 
ways liked  Bun  Chubbuck,  and  for  her  it  was  a  treat 
to  see  him  again.  Krag  found  himself  thanking  Bunny 
in  his  heart  for  that  sunshine.  There  had  been  mists  of 
late  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"How  do  —  how  —  how  do!"  Bunny  was  ejaculat- 
ing. He  held  a  little  gloved  hand.  He  gathered  the 
bright  eagerness  of  two  blue  eyes.  He  heard  her  laughter, 
broken  almost  by  tears,  at  him,  Bunny,  because  he  was 
the  same  Bunny,  and  a  boy  as  always,  as  he  always 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  83 

would  be.  And  Bunny,  seeing  that  the  boy  had  all 
gone  out  of  Jim  Krag,  knew  pity  for  Maisie,  who  was  of 
childhood  still  and  who,  always,  would  need  childhood's 
buoyant  cheer  in  a  life's  companion. 

"You  see,  Chub,"  Krag  announced,  "I  got  her."  As 
though  poor  Bunny  had  been  watching  the  getting  of 
her  as  a  species  of  prolonged  and  diverting  sporting  event ! 

Bunny  nodded,  eagerly  confirmative,  though  confirm- 
ative of  what,  he  as  yet  paused  not  to  think.  Rather 
dazedly  but  grinning  ever,  he  laid  his  handkerchief  to  his 
brow.  —  "I  got  her." —  It  was  only  a  clumsy,  jocose, 
bridegroom  manner  of  announcement,  such  as  seems  to  be 
required  of  such  occasions.  Nevertheless,  there  was 
something  grisly  about  it  that  touched  the  marrow. 
Bunny's  stricken  eyes  went  to  Maisie.  What  was  it 
about  her  that  was  so  unfamiliar?  Yes,  her  curls.  Cu- 
rious, that  his  realization  should  come  with  missing  them ! 
In  the  first  exaltation  of  her  new  estate,  the  pretty  bride 
had  "done  up "  her  hair.  But  that  was  not  all.  Maisie's 
smile  for  Jim's  announcement  was  less  than  perfunctory. 
It  was  heartsick  —  yes,  heartsick. 

"Well,  we  might  as  well  be  moving.  Let  me " 

Bunny  stooped  for  Maisie's  suitcase  and  Jim's  canvas 
telescope.  And  as  he  leaned  over,  to  the  cinder-strewn 
platform  of  the  car  was  given  the  passing  of  the  grin, 
the  sharp  wrench  of  pain,  the  fixing  of  the  cheerful 
smirk  when  he  should  lift  his  head  to  face  the  next  half 
hour  and  the  future  years.  "This  way.  All  ready?" 

He  clove  a  passage,  mostly  by  energetically  shaking 
his  head,  through  cargadores  clutching  at  the  valises, 
and  brought  his  two  friends  to  a  decrepit  hack.  It  was 


84  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  least  decrepit  one  he  could  find.  Bunny's  aim  in 
life  seemed  to  be  to  get  them  safely  installed  in  the 
vehicle,  lest  truculent  brigands  should  hatchet  them  at 
any  moment. 

There  was  what  the  Mexcans  called  a  kilometre  — 
of  dust  storm,  they  might  have  added  —  between  the 
station  and  the  town,  since  railroads  in  Mexico  affect 
an  aloofness  for  towns.  They  go  by  them,  but  rarely 
to  them.  So  into  the  dust  storm  plunged  Bunny's  hack. 
At  least  it  made  as  much  dust  for  the  hacks  behind 
as  the  hacks  ahead  did  for  it.  The  Venetians  and  Es- 
quimaux might  call  this  a  law  of  compensations,  and  be 
philosophic.  Bunny  thought  it  matter  for  apology, 
and  said,  by  jinks,  the  natives  were  talking  about  the 
last  rain  yet.  He  assured  Maisie  that  the  last  rain  was 
still  an  article  of  human  memory.  Bunny  was  a  brave 
soul,  and  Krag  knew  that  he  was  from  the  way  he  said 
"by  jinks." 

Bunny  had  squeezed  himself  into  the  narrow  drop-seat 
of  the  one-time  pretentious  coupe,  opposite  Krag,  and 
not  opposite  Maisie.  Yet  Bunny  found  it  hard  to  keep 
his  eyes  from  Maisie.  Maisie  supposed  that  Jim  and 
Bun  Chubbuck  had  much  to  say  to  each  other,  and  she 
gazed  mostly  out  of  the  dust-smeared  window.  She 
wanted  to  be  curious  and  interested,  but  she  was  home- 
sick and  lost  and  tremulous  nevertheless.  Bunny  thought 
that  in  her  tan  travelling  suit  and  with  that  tourist  veil  she 
looked  sweetly  fetching  and  very  desirable,  and  with  her 
trying  so  hard  not  to  be  downcast  she  looked  particularly 
tempting  as  one  to  be  cherished  and  forever  shielded  from 
pain.  Bunny  took  his  eyes  away,  almost  guiltily,  just  as 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  85 

he  had  tried  not  to  look  at  the  medal  Jim  had  won  from 
him  three  years  before.  He  said  to  himself  that  he 
couldn't  have  won  Maisie  anyway.  It  took  a  man  like 
Jim  to  win  Maisie.  Everything  had  come  to  pass  exactly 
as  everything  should  come  to  pass.  Bunny  kept  on  as- 
suring himself  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  things. 

"They  wore  galoshes  along  here  then,"  he  added, 
resolutely  harking  back  to  that  last  rain.  He  would  run 
all  his  brave  soul  through  the  sieve  for  one  grain  of  cheer. 

Krag  took  pity,  and  tossed  him  a  straw  on  the  waters. 
"Any  silver  out  there,  Chub?"  He  lifted  his  chin  at 
the  yellow  desert,  and  beyond,  to  a  purpled  blur  on  the 
horizon. 

"My,  yes,"  cried  Bunny  gratefully.  "That's  the 
Sierra  Madre." 

Fit  to  be  the  mother  of  sierras,  too!  It  was  a  barren, 
treeless  range,  and  hard  and  remorseless,  as  if  the  hot 
winds  of  past  eons  had  banked  the  desert  in  ridges  along 
the  edge  of  the  earth. 

"Much  silver,  I  wonder?" 

"Much?  Well!  Hills  full  of  it.  That's  what  makes 
'em  so  high,  Jim. —  Full  of  other  things,  too.  Full 
of  what  fools  had  to  give,  their  money,  their  years,  and 
their  skeletons."  He  pursed  his  lips  with  decision.  "None 
of  it  for  mine,  Jim." 

Krag  grunted  indulgently.  This  blessed  Chub  was 
but  extending  the  usual  warning  to  the  tenderfoot. 
"Maisie  girl" — Krag  turned  to  his  bride.  Mines  were 
apparently  worked  out  —  "would  you  look  at  those 
kids?"  Three  or  four  half -naked,  reddish-brown  waifs 
were  having  great  fun  with  a  swirling,  circling,  slowly 


86  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

moving  dust  spout.  They  flung  a  sombrero  into  it, 
which  shot  skyward,  and  then  chased  it,  shrieking  glee- 
fully. "A  little  bit  of  audacity,  that.  Think  of  those 
specks  of  flesh  making  a  plaything  of  the  desert. —  Eh? 
Oh!  But  what  were  you  saying,  Chub?" 

Chub  was  only  saying  something  about  conquistador es, 
treasure  ships,  the  Spanish  Main,  the  Royal  Fifth,  Yaqui 
massacres,  abandoned  bonanzas.  He  was  pretty  nearly 
saying  the  viceregal  history  of  the  New  World.  He 
wanted  to  keep  Jim  to  silver.  Silver  was  the  great  card 
to  play  to  strangers,  and  silver  would  last  longer  than 
dust  spouts. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Chub,  jumping  the  desert 
and  firmly  putting  them  back  on  the  purple  range,  "that 
the  Veta  Negra  is  out  there  somewhere." 

"Veta  Negra?    That  means  a  black  vein." 

"What,"  exclaimed  Chubbuck,  "you  know  Spanish?" 

"He  was  studying  it,  Bunny,"  said  Maisie,  "all  the 
time  he  studied  medicine.  How  he  ever  managed  so 
much  7  don't  know.  No  one  knows."  She  shot  a  glance 
of  almost  frightened  admiration  at  her  husband.  "  What's 
more,  as  long  as  three  years  ago  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  come  down  here." 

"Jim  always  was  near  cousin  to  predestination," 
laughed  Bunny,  but  he  also  glanced  a  little  restlessly 
at  the  heavy  profile  before  him  in  the  dusty  hack. 
Krag  was  not  flattered.  Awe  in  others  did  not  measure 
him.  It  measured  them.  And  he  would  not  have 
Maisie  on  that  plane  with  the  others.  He  wanted  Maisie 
in  his  own  habitation. 

"The  Veta  Negra "  Chubbuck  persisted. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  87 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Krag,  turning  from  the  window,  "your 
Black  Vein?  Something  recherch6  in  vascular  systems, 
I  suppose?" 

"No,  Jim,  no,  and  though  you  don't  care  about  mines, 
like  me,  still  a  story's  a  story  and  a  legend's  a  legend,  and 
if  you'll  let  me  just  vapourize  along  about  this  Veta  Negra, 
perhaps  it'll  entertain  Maisie  over  a  few  of  these  bumps. 
Anyway,  it's  one  of  the  abandoned  bonanzas,  Jim. 
Another  case  of  Indians  getting  tired  of  toting  two- 
hundred  pound  ore  sacks  up  chicken  ladders  for  the 
Spaniards,  and  one  day  murdering  every  Gachupin  on 
the  works,  and  covering  up  the  shaft,  and  keeping  the 
place  a  tribal  secret  for  centuries  until  even  the  trails 
to  it  were  lost.  Some  of  the  richest  bearing  lodes  down 
here,  accidentally  discovered  every  now  and  then,  are 
believed  or  are  positively  known  to  be  the  same  as  some 
of  those  old  Spanish  workings.  But  the  Veta  Negra 
is  still  a  legend,  and  that  means  that  the  excitement  about 
it  will  never  go  down  until  it  is  actually  found  and  becomes 
somebody's  property.  Wonder  you  never  heard  of  it. 
If  you  had  a  bucket  of  the  Veta  Negra  ore  for  every 
sun-cured  skull  of  a  prospector  out  in  those  hills  that's 
looked  for  it,  you  could  —  why,  you  could  buy  a  smelter 
on  the  interest." 

"  Blessed  old  Supernal,"  murmured  Krag. 

"Dry  up,"  said  Chubbuck.  "It's  a  fact.  The 
Yaquis  kill  'em.  And  if  it's  the  Yaquis  that  keep  a 
treasure  secret,  you  can  bet  it's  going  to  stay  kept 
a  secret." 

"But  that  vascular  ore,  Chub?  Isn't  that  going 
some  —  even  for  a  legend?" 


88 

"Legend?  By  jinks,  it's  not  really  a  legend.  It's 
good  history.  The  vein  was  a  hundred  feet  across,  and 
you  can  verify  that  by  the  old  Spanish  archives  in  Madrid 
or  somewhere.  And  it  was  so  rich  that  —  well,  a  pick 
would  stick  in  it  like  as  if  it  was  driven  in  solid  silver, 
and  you  couldn't  pull  it  out,  like  Siegfried's  sword, 
Nothung  —  you  know,  the  Needful  —  in  the  oak  tree." 

"Needful,"  said  Krag,  with  the  faintest  gleam  hi  his 
gray  eyes,  "is  good." 

"Don't '  Bunny  was  going  to  say  "smile,"  but 

Krag's  unpleasantly  twisted  mouth  made  him  doubtful 
if  it  were  that  —  "don't  wrench  your  beauty,  Jim,  because 
what  I'm  telling  you,  they  are  facts.  Listen  here: 
about  a  hundred  years  ago  there  was  a  woman  of  this 
very  town,  the  widow  of  a  merchant,  who  had  saved  a 
wounded  Yaqui  from  Mexican  soldiers.  What  happened? 
One  night  the  Yaqui  brought  her  a  lump  of  practically 
solid  silver,  black  as  coal,  and  big? —  took  a  dozen  In- 
dians to  carry  it.  Romance  nothing,  no!  The  great 
scientist  Humboldt  himself  saw  it  in  the  City  of  Mexico. 
As  I  say,  it  was  black,  and  for  its  colour  and  size  it  couldn't 
have  come  from  anywhere  except  out  of  the  Veto,  Negra. 
Now  then!" 

"Why,"  said  Krag,  "that's  real  entertaining,  Chub. 
Eh,  Maisie  girl? —  Black,  you  say?  I  declare.  A  sul- 
phide then?  Probably  a  deep  mine,  or  was  it?" 

"Geology!  Mineralogy!  What  else  do  you  know, 
Jim?" 

Krag  ignored  the  ejaculation.  "That  smoke  stack  out 
there,"  he  asked,  "that  the  smelter?" 

He  pointed  to  a  sooty  blur  on  a  little  rise  between  the 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  89 

town  and  tke  mountains.  The  soot  spot  was  the  smelter 
buildings.  The  stack  pierced  the  sky  above  them,  a 
thread  of  smoke  hovering  over  its  muzzle.  The  patch 
was  not  an  oasis.  It  was  the  desert  intensified.  The 
dust  was  black  there.  Like  a  pall  it  hung  over  the  smelter 
buildings.  Maisie  drew  back  into  the  shaking,  rattling 
hack  from  her  first  look  at  her  new  home,  and  batted  her 
eyes  hard. 

"They'll  give  you  two  rooms  over  the  mess  house  - 
oh,  nice  rooms,"  Bunny  added  valiantly.  "And  maybe 
later,  when  one  of  the  cottages  falls  vacant,  which  happens 
pretty  frequent.  .  .  .  Mike  Eldridge  the  assayer 
was  saying  just  the  other  day  that  he  couldn't  face  his 
Maker  and  ask  a  white  woman  to  stay  any.  .  .  . 
But  Mrs.  Eldridge  is  subject  to  melancholia,  you  know 
.  .  .  I  ...  by  jinks!  .  .  ."  Bunny 

stopped  definitely.  He  noted  that  he  was  failing  to 
cheer  poor  Maisie. 

As  they  charged  with  a  bump  and  a  bang  upon  the 
cobble  stones  of  a  narrow  street,  and  there  was  the 
drowsy  Mexican  life  around  them  —  saddle-hued  faces, 
serapes,  sombreros,  rebosas,  odours,  plaintive  phrases 
caught  above  the  din  of  wheels  and  hoofs,  quaint  signs 
over  shops,  barred  windows,  and  gaudily  painted  adobe 
fronts,  all  swaying  drunkenly  past  —  and  as  the  rattling, 
pitching,  screeching  old  hack  made  pleasant  discourse 
preposterous,  Bunny  managed  the  rest  of  the  journey 
with  his  heroic  smile  and  a  nod  or  gesture  or  so,  until 
they  were  jerked  up  short  before  the  hotel  where  his 
friends  might  stop  for  a  few  hours'  rest. 

"The  company's  coach  will  be  by  for  you  this  after- 


90  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

noon,"  Bunny  reassured  them,  seeing  Maisie  peer  into 
the  dark  patio  beyond  the  arched  portals  of  the  hotel. 
"Want  some  aguacates  —  alligator  pears,  you  know? 
Figs,  too  —  Think  you  were  in  the  Orient,  wouldn't 
you?"  He  bought  from  the  pyramid-heaped  wooden 
bowl  of  a  peddler  at  the  door,  caught  up  their  hand 
baggage,  and  led  them  into  the  dank,  moist,  stone-paved 
patio.  Close  smells  of  kitchen,  bedchambers,  and  un- 
washed, tawny  flesh  weighted  the  air.  "If  you've  never 
tried  an  aguacate  salad,"  Bunny  was  saying,  and  thus 
got  them  up  a  flight  of  slippery  stone  steps  to  their 
rooms. 

Bunny  had  asked  no  question  about  "everything  back 
in  the  States";  to  ask  hundreds  of  which  he  had  looked 
forward  so  pleasureably  to  Jim's  coming.  He  remem- 
bered with  surprise  that  he  had  asked  not  one,  and  he 
remembered  only  when  Maisie  was  gone  for  a  moment  to 
remove  the  leghorn  hat  and  tourist  veil.  But  still  he 
asked  none.  He  had  a  queer  feeling  of  utter  solitude  in 
the  world  and  he  did  not  care  to  ask  questions.  For  was 
not  the  heart  of  each  of  the  hundreds  of  questions  the 
one  sweet,  potent  personality  in  the  next  room?  Maisie ! 
She  was  exactly  an  eternity  farther  away  than  the  States. 
And  Bunny's  questions  did  not  apply  to  eternity. 

All  this  filled  Bunny  with  a  dread  that  he  had  not  been 
polite.  To  show  no  concern  for  a  dear  friend's  kith  and 
kin  was  stupid.  It  was  boorish. 

"  Do  you  know  you  haven't  mentioned  any  of  the  folks?" 
He  spoke  when  Maisie  returned  for  her  suitcase.  "Tell 
me,  how  did  you  leave  Mrs.  Hacklette,  and  all  of  them?" 

To  his  surprise  Maisie  cast  a  startled  look  toward  her 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  91 

husband,  who  kept  his  eyes  from  her  and  went  to  the 
window  balcony. 

"Mamma's  quite  well,"  she  said. 

"And  your  father?"  Bunny  blundered  on. 

Again  Maisie's  eyes  darted  swiftly  to  her  husband, 
and  this  time  —  Bunny  could  not  be  mistaken  —  there 
was  appeal  in  them.  It  was  as  though  a  weapon  were  sud- 
denly raised  against  her  father.  And  Bunny,  seeing  Krag's 
face,  did  not  wonder  that  Krag  kept  his  face  from  her. 
The  look  Bunny  saw  there  made  his  heart  go  out  in 
helpless  pity  to  the  young  wife. 

Krag's  massive~shoulders  lifted.  For  him  the  thought  of 
Hacklette  was  dismissed.  He  turned,  but  to  find  Maisie's 
pleading  eyes  still  on  him,  and  a  look  of  sharp  pain  came 
into  his  own  eyes.  Then  his  jaw  set.  Hacklette  had 
given  him  Maisie.  But  Hacklette  still  kept  Maisie  from 
him,  just  as  during  three  years  Hacklette  had  stood 
between  him  and  his  pride  of  manhood.  He  kept  from 
him  happiness,  his  hope  against  loneliness,  his  mate,  as 
surely  as  though  the  episode  on  Cleft  Rock  had  never 
been.  Hacklette  pursued  him  with  the  meed  of  hatred. 
And  it  was  hatred,  gleaming  in  steel  gray  eyes,  that  caused 
Maisie  to  shrink  from  her  husband.  Because  she  shrank, 
the  hatred  grew.  Krag  now  charged  against  the  man 
Hacklette  his  bride's  pitiful  fear  of  him,  and  each  stab  of 
pain  that  that  meant. 

Krag,  turning  heavily  again  toward  the  window, 
was  caught  by  the  dismay  on  Bun  Chubbuck's  face.  He 
saw  the  poor  fellow  whip  his  gaze  from  Maisie.  Krag 
paused  and  contemplated  Bunny,  a  little  puzzled,  a  little 
meditating,  a  long  time.  He  uttered  a  contemptuous 


92  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

grunt.  But  another  thought  came.  He  drew  Bunny 
out  on  the  balcony. 

"Chub,"  he  said,  "you've  got  to  make  her  laugh! 
Make  her  smile  —  something.  You've  got  to,  or  I 
believe  I'd  kill  you." 

"Poor  old  Jim,"  said  Bunny  suddenly,  "I'm  afraid 
it's  killing  you  already." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

The  Desert  Rat 

DOCTOR  KRAG'S  duties  at  the  smelter  were  not 
excessive.  Occasionally  a  peon  at  the  furnaces 
backed  into  a  slag  pot,  and  landed  with  a 
comical  splash  into  the  molten  mass,  his  arms  and  feet 
pawing  the  air,  a  contortion  of  intense  amazement  on 
his  face.  Usually  the  doctor  prescribed  a  wooden  box 
painted  pink,  and  the  company  gave  his  widow  fifteen 
pesos.  If  it  was  a  burro  that  the  peon  lost  instead  of 
his  life,  the  company  gave  the  peon  twenty  pesos.  The 
company  methodically  scaled  all  things  to  schedule, 
from  mortality  to  a  settlement  sheet. 

Other  casualties  were  not  always  so  conclusive,  and 
science  intervened  to  prolong  uncertainty.  Also  they 
interfered  with  the  smelter  surgeon's  practice  in  town. 
Wherefore  the  surgeon  had  demanded  an  assistant. 
It  was  in  this  fissure  operated  in  the  company's  payroll 
that  Krag  found  himself.  His  generous  chief  turned 
over  to  him  more  and  more  of]  the  casualties,  as  being 
"a  gorgeous  chance  in  chocolate  ivory  for  bringing  up 
one's  technique."  But  fissures'  are  abhorrent  to 
corporation  schedules.  At  the  end  of  a  year  Krag 
found  himself  his  own  chief.  This  helped  all  round. 
The  surgeon  had  all  his  time  for  town  practice.  Krag 

93 


94  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

had  more  of  gorgeous  chance.  The  company  had  a 
surgeon  at  an  assistant's  salary. 

In  due  course,  which  was  ten  minutes  after  the  next 
following  pay-day,  Doctor  Krag  made  it  clear  to  the 
company  that  his  friend  Bunny  would  have  to  cast  up  a 
rather  larger  figure  on  the  smelter  surgeon's  bi-monthly 
salary  voucher.  He  tendered  the  voucher  itself  for 
revision. 

"Oh  well,"  said  the  manager  to  the  superintendent 
later,  still  with  a  sharply  defined  impression  of  the  recent 
interview,  "he's  twice  old  Doc  anyhow." 

"Twice?"  echoed  the  superintendent.  "The  only 
requisition  he's  turned  in  in  months  has  been  for " 

"I  know;  mustard  plasters.  Now  what  the  Sam  Hill 
does  he  want  with  so  many  mustard  plasters?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  superintendent.  "Maybe 
they're  little  stepping  stones  to  good  health.  Anyway, 
when  you  see  a  Mexican  nowadays  go  into  the  hospital, 
you  can  bet  your  grandmother  that  he's  a  sick  Mexican 
—  a  sure  sick  one,  all  right.  Here,  I'll  just  bet  you 
myself  that  we're  saving  enough  out  of  the  men's  hospital 
dues  to  pay  that  silent,  rock-ballasted  demon  his  raise 
twenty  times  over." 

"Demon?     I  can  quite  believe  that,  but " 

"Watch  him  once  with  his  knives  and  his  needle  work- 
ing over  some  gory  smear  that  used  to  be  a  perfectly  good 
peon.  He's  as  cold  as  ice  and  swift  as  a  steel  trap,  and 
his  jaw's  undershot,  and  inside  —  that's  my  theory  — 
he's  fighting  mad,  a  white-heat  mad.  And  the  more  darn 
foolish  it  is  trying  to  sew  up  the  basket  of  ribbons  into  a 
man  again,  the  icier  and  hotter  and  madder  he  gets." 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  95 

"He  loves  the  lowly  peon,  then?" 

The  superintendent  vented  the  one  improper  word 
for  disgust.  "I  dope  it  out  this  way,"  he  explained. 
"It's  table  stakes  against  the  Reaper  with  him,  and  lie 
hates  to  lose.  No,he  declines  to  lose;  that's  it,he  declines." 

What  was  called  a  hospital  was  not  a  hospital  at  all. 
Ordinarily  it  was  a  dispensary.  It  was  a  low,  white, 
stone  building  of  two  rooms,  three  barred  windows,  and 
one  outside  door.  The  first  room  contained  a  roll  top 
desk  and  swivel  chair,  a  gun  rack,  a  wooden  bench, 
bottles  on  shelves,  a  pharmaceutical  cabinet,  freight 
boxes  partially  unpacked,  the  odour  of  iodoform,  dis- 
order, and  dust.  The  dust  cushioned  all  things.  Flies 
perished  in  it,  and  were  buried. 

A  door  between  the  two  rooms,  always  kept  closed, 
led  into  the  second  room,  and  here  was  the  realm  of  the 
scrubbing  brush.  Every  morning  three  muscled  Mexi- 
cans scrubbed.  After  which  operation,  it  was  the  operat- 
ing room,  shining,  polished,  clean,  with  table,  stand, 
lavatory,  instruments,  windows  double  screened,  and  not 
a  fly,  either  alive  or  buried. 

Krag  received,  on  suspicion,  in  the  first  room.  Each 
shift  brought  him  its  woes  of  body  or  imagination,  and 
waited  on  the  long  wooden  bench,  while  the  senor  doctor 
tilted  back  heads  and  lifted  eyelids  and  looked 
at  tongues,  and  turned  a  trembling  peon's  soul 
inside  out,  and  grunted.  If  it  was  quinine  or  calomel 
that  the  peon  wanted,  to  barter  for  mescal  at 
the  cantina  under  the  hill,  the  doctor  diagnosed 
that  too,  and  softly  said:  "Vamanos  —  Flit!" 
If  that  peon  fraudulently  came  a  second  time,  the 


96  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

doctor  prescribed  Specific  No.  1,  which  was  a  mustard 
plaster  and  non-negotiable,  laid  firmly  on  the  shoulder 
blade  by  the  doctor  himself.  And  perhaps  the  doctor's 
own  cheyenne  salve  was  laid  on  after  that.  The  works 
had  never  been  in  such  a  state  of  health. 

But  any  peon,  however  foul;  any  vermin-ridden  flesh, 
so  only  that  it  contained  life  and  was  about  to  lose  life, 
was  very  welcome.  The  Reaper's  seal  was  his  passport. 
Such  a  one  Krag  would  bear  to  the  inner  shrine,  into 
the  waiting  sanctuary  of  the  scrubbing  brush.  The 
surgeon  then  was  greater  than  loving  care.  He  was  the 
ferocity  of  determination,  the  more  so  because  his  foe, 
being  death,  was  the  deadliest  foe;  the  more  so  because 
that  which  he  championed  he  most  despised,  mortality. 
To  such  he  gave  his  skill,  daring,  caution,  and  patience, 
his  days  and  nights,  working  swiftly  or  watching  silently, 
while  whiter  men  of  lesser  ills  might  wait  or  rot,  as  they 
chose. 

The  superintendent  unwittingly  had  hit  it  right. 
This  was  Krag's  game.  It  was  his  play  time,  though  his 
bread-winning  time.  It  was  release  from  the  vanishing 
point;  his  recreation.  The  rest  of  the  day,  or  of  the  night, 
was  his  real  work,  which  with  Krag  was  Krag  himself. 

Yet  this  real  work  looked  like  the  dawdling  phase  of 
his  existence.  Intellectual  dawdling,  the  superintendent 
called  it,  as  when  Krag  conceived  a  weird  notion  to  study 
the  Yaqui  dialect.  For  the  Yaquis  were  not  a  conver- 
sazione people.  They  murdered,  and  did  not  linger. 
And  if  they  did,  who  in  thunder  would  want  to  talk  to 
them,  anyway? 

Besides,  if  one  absolutely  must  talk  to  Yaquis  to  be 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  97 

happy,  why  not  do  it  in  Spanish  to  the  Yaquis  pacifico  a 
working  for  the  smelter?  These  pacificos  all  knew  Span- 
ish. Many  of  them  had  been  living  in  civilization  for  gen- 
erations, though  they  disappeared  sometimes  for  a  while, 
and  perhaps  their  wages  often  went  for  Mauser  shells 
to  send  to  the  untamed  Yaquis  in  the  sierra.  They  were 
good  workmen,  and  the  smelter's  best  paid  natives, 
and  the  company  managed  to  keep  the  watchful  govern- 
ment from  putting  them  in  chain  gangs,  as  was  being 
done  with  pacificos  elsewhere  while  the  sierra  Yaquis 
stayed  on  the  warpath. 

Still,  there  was  no  explaining  the  young  doctor.  He 
was  always  ready  to  go  when  a  pacifico  child  in  the  village 
fell  sick.  A  pacifico  required  only  a  word  of  Yaqui  to 
get  the  doctor's  ear,  at  any  time  and  no  matter  where. 
The  superintendent  even  suspected  that  Krag  gave  them 
lead  from  the  assay  office.  Leisure,  comfort,  sleep,  all 
these  the  untalkative  Doctor  Krag  would  forego  for  his 
linguistic  passion. 

Krag  had  other  and  more  rational  amusements,  but 
they  were  seemingly  as  aimless.  For  example,  the 
superintendent  was  always  glad  to  let  him  help  figure 
out  a  metallurgical  charge.  It  began  by  Krag 
sauntering  in  one  day  and  idly  wondering  how 
they  kept  the  furnaces  from  freezing  up.  Likewise 
he  had  strolled  into  the  laboratory  and  was  soon 
doing  some  determinations  for  antimony,  while  the 
chemist  sat  down  and  read  the  paper.  Eldridge  the 
assayer  entertained  him,  too,  by  letting  him  pull  the 
cupels  out  of  the  little  hell  over  which  assayers  pre- 
side, or  weigh  gold  and  silver  buttons,  the  specie  of 


98  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  little  hell  as  of  Hell,  on  glass-encased  scales.  In  the 
prevailing  state  of  health  Krag  could  often  loiter  a  half- 
day  with  one  of  these  amiable  toilers,  or  even  with  the  man- 
ager himself  in  the  ore-buying  sanctum.  But  none  of 
them  realized  how  much  he  soon  knew  about  the  ex- 
traction of  values  from  the  rocks  of  the  earth. 

Krag  had  need  of  the  larger  figure  henceforth  cast  up- 
ward by  Bunny.  He  had  sent  Maisie  to  Mexico  City,  se- 
cretly hoping  that  she  might  find  sunshine  there  and  bring 
it  back  with  her.  She  stayed  two  weeks,  and  begged  to 
come  back.  But  she  brought  no  sunshine.  Else  it 
went  into  the  desert's  glare.  Now  he  wanted  to  send  her 
for  a  visit  home.  And  send  her  he  did.  She  was  to  stay 
as  long  as  she  wished,  no  matter  how  long.  He  made  it 
explicit;  gently,  yet  explicit..  She  stayed  a  month,  and 
begged  to  come  back.  He  knew  she  would.  Soon  after 
she  had  her  baby,  a  baby  girl,  but  that  was  not  the  sun- 
shine —  not  quite  —  though  they  named  her  Alice. 

That  baby!  She  earned  her  father's  attention  as  an 
instance  of  the  most  troublesome  and  stupid  of  the  young 
of  all  animals.  She  was  an  item  the  more  in  his  contempt 
for  the  human  species.  For  the  species,  that  is,  because 
as  babies  go  she  was  an  exemplary  babe;  which  he  was 
entirely  willing  to  accept  on  faith  and  her  mother's  word. 
But  his  scientific  discernment  would  not  let  him  away 
from  the  fact  that  Alice  referred  the  universe  and  all  that 
in  it  was,  and  her  mother  most  of  all,  to  her  little  tummy. 
Krag  kept  it  to  himself,  but  he  could  recall  no  young 
animal  feeding  that  was  more  purely  animal  at  that  fes- 
tival than  this  wee  thing  sprung  from  his  loins.  Yet, 
when  excess  was  vocalized  in  terms  of  colic,  the  one  to 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  99 

wait  her  through  the  endless  reaches  of  the  night  was 
himself,  precisely  as  he  would  thrust  the  bulwark  of  his 
flesh  and  bone  between  Maisie  and  every  pest.  And  his 
hand,  that  might  tear  away  the  jaw  of  a  lion,  stroked 
his  baby  girl's  fragile  head,  and  soothed  her  in  the 
Nirvana  of  his  huge  vitality. 

The  meagre  American  society  of  mess  house  and 
cottages  alleviated  both  desert  and  smelter,  although 
it  was  a  narrow,  gossipy,  tattling  little  circle  in  its  mutual, 
self-sacrificing  helpfulness,  and  as  ridiculous  as  an  army 
post  over  the  precedence  of  one's  husband's  position  and 
salary  compared  to  the  same  of  each  other  woman's 
husband.  The  safety  valve  for  husbands  was  to  pack 
them  off  to  the  States  whenever  they  could  find  the  money. 
All,  however,  were  of  accord  about  Maisie's  little  trips. 
They  deplored  her  going.  They  needed  no  perfunctory 
exclamation  to  be  glad  when  she  came  back.  Maisie 
was  hors  de  concours.  They  would  relish  seeing  her  brows 
lift.  They  longed  to  see  her  tilt  her  chin.  But  Maisie's 
brows  and  chin  were  not  of  that  kind,  unless  in  making 
delightful  faces  at  Baby  Alice,  and  Baby  Alice,  like 
queens  and  empresses  on  their  thrones,  was  not  fretting 
about  precedence. 

So  there  were  other  reasons  why  Krag  gave  Maisie 
the  little  trips.  The  reasons  abounded  when  he  could 
no  longer  bear  the  frightened  look  in  her  gentle  blue  eyes. 
He  dreaded,  some  day,  to  see  her  cringe  from  him.  He 
had  made  her  heart  all  snug  and  right  so  far  as  hearts 
go  as  mechanical  pumps.  But  he  could  not  make  it 
snug  and  right  as  a  register  of  joy  and  a  chronometer 
of  bright  seconds.  And  his  hatred  of  Maisie's  father  grew 


100  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

because  Maisie's  life  also  was  dwindling  into  wretchedness. 
He  would  not  see  that  this  hatred  itself,  and  the  sodden, 
heavy  look  of  it  in  his  eyes,  reared  the  barrier  between 
Maisie  and  the  sunshine.  He  saw  only  his  hatred's 
object  as  that  barrier. 

But,  after  all,  the  need  of  Maisie's  little  journeys 
back  into  the  world  was  a  current  need  only,  like  coffee 
at  breakfast  or  the  baby's  safety  pins.  It  did  not  concern 
the  vanishing  point,  and  Krag's  unflinching  gaze  was 
always  on  the  vanishing  point.  His  need  of  more  salary 
had  to  do  with  coffee  and  pins  and  Maisie's  least  desire, 
but  not  ultimately.  Ultimately,  in  some  strange  way 
it  had  to  do  with  an  occasional  lean,  leather-fleshed,  rope- 
sinewed,  dust-begrimed,  and  half-naked  native  off  the 
yellow  desert  who  had  come  from  the  terrible  sierra 
beyond  the  desert. 

Cutting  blasts  had  matted  the  dust  in  the  creature's 
straight  black  hair,  whose  stiff  tufts  pierced  the  cracks 
in  a  rotting  sombrero.  The  saffron  powder  was  ground 
into  the  seams  of  the  lean  face  and  into  the  creases  of 
the  neck.  Like  tawny  gilt  on  bronze,  it  streaked  the 
hollows  between  the  ribs,  seen  when  the  ragged  mania 
blouse  lay  back  before  the  wind.  It  filled  the  deep  cracks 
in  the  man's  heels,  which  were  of  tougher  leather  than 
the  sandals  under  them.  It  stained  the  cotton  calzones 
flapping  about  the  thin,  knotted  legs,  and  through  every 
stitch  it  was  caked  and  rusted. 

This  occasional  native  was  a  desert  rat.  He  was  a 
chameleon  of  the  waste,  meek,  passive,  and  surviving. 
Bones,  tendons,  and  hide,  these  were  wrought  to  endure 
his  habitat,  and  his  brain  was  an  instinct  to  skulk  before 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  101 

the  fiercer  creatures  out  there.  To  the  very  membrane 
of  his  gullet  the  heat  had  sucked  out  the  juices,  until 
that  also  was  parched  to  the  chameleon  hue.  Then  one 
day  the  desert  rat  would  blot  himself  against  the  outer 
smelter  wall,  lethargic,  patient,  and  athirst,  waiting 
for  one  he  knew,  that  he  might  lave  the  crackling  mem- 
brane in  aguardiente  of  a  fire  to  match  the  sun's  own. 

One  afternoon  at  five  o'clock,  as  was  his  custom  dur- 
ing the  two  years  he  had  been  at  the  smelter,  Krag  locked 
the  hospital  door  behind  him,  putting  an  end  to  pro- 
fessional routine  for  that  day.  Except  when  a  joust 
with  the  Reaper  was  on,  he  would  then  return  to  Maisie 
and  the  baby  —  more  apparently,  let  us  say,  to  his  books 
on  mineralogy  —  in  the  stifling  and  dusty  rooms  over 
the  mess  house. 

But  this  afternoon,  as  he  passed  through  the  smelter 
gates,  nodding  to  the  two  policemen  always  on  guard 
there,  a  desert  rat  detached  the  blot  of  himself  from  the 
wall  and  drew  alongside  the  doctor,  taking  off  his  limp 
sombrero  as  he  did  so. 

Krag  glanced  down  at  the  dust  seamed  face.  "How, 
Pldcido;  back,  are  you?  "  He  could  tell  the  natives  apart, 
which  is  a  trick  that  requires  practice. 

"Pues  si,  senor"  The  man  put  the  sombrero  brim 
between  his  teeth  and  began  fumbling  with  his  loin  cloth. 
From  its  knotted  ends  he  drew  pieces  of  rock,  and  laid 
them  on  Krag's  broad  palm.  While  Krag  examined 
them,  he  waited  stolidly,  like  an  old  dog.  Krag  hefted 
the  rocks  one  by  one,  turned  them  over,  examined  them 
under  a  pocket  magnifying  glass.  He  seemed  greatly 
bored.  The  Mexican's  dog-like  eyes  shifted  from  the 


102  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

white  man  and  on  down  the  little  hill,  to  the  village  of 
thatched  adobes  where  aguardiente  was  sold.  They  came 
back,  and  met  the  steel  gray  eyes  of  the  white  man.  The 
Mexican  quailed,  although  there  was  no  lie  in  his  heart. 

"You  have  been  gone,"  said  Krag,  "two  weeks  and 
three  days.  I  advanced  you  a  media  a  day,  to  buy  beans 
and  tortillas  for  two  weeks.  Three  days  over;  eighteen 
cents  I  owe  you.  Take  them." 

"But  senor,"  faltered  the  man,  "there  are  yet  the  two 
reales  a  day " 

"Did  they  not  pay  you  in  the  mine  where  you  have 
been  working?" 

"In  a  mine,  senor?  Truly,  I  work  in  no  mine.  The 
senor  must  believe  that  I  work  for  him  only." 

"Are  you  a  liar,  Placido?" 

"Pues,  no,  mi  patron.  I  am  prospecting  only  for  the 
senor." 

"Am  I  a  fool,  Placido?" 

Placido  shrugged  vaguely.    "The  senor  should  know." 

Krag  handed  him  back  the  rocks.  "See  for  yourself, 
Placido.  Yes,  they  are  heavy.  Yes,  there  is  silver  in 
them.  But  they  are  not  outcroppings.  They  are  not 
reddish.  You  would  not  call  them  colorados.  You 
would  call  them  negros,  so  that  they  came  from  deep 
down  —  eh,  Placido?  But  after  all,  Placido,  you  have 
not  told  me  where  you  got  them?" 

"In  a  mine,  senor." 

"Ah,  then " 

"No,  mi  patron,  I  did  not  steal  them.  I  have  not 
been  working  in  a  mine.  Yet  they  came  from  a  mine. 
A  mina  tapada,  an  antigua,  a  lost  mine,  senor" 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  103 

Krag  gravely  took  the  rocks  and  dropped  them  in  his 
coat  pocket.  "A  peso  on  account,  Placido.  Here.' 
The  desert  rat  caught  the  coin,  knotted  it  in  an  end  of 
his  loin  cloth.  "Be  here,"  said  Krag,  "at  five  o'clock 
to-morrow.  At  five  the  day  after.  At  five  the  day  after 
that,  until  we  start  for  your  lost  mine.  Does  it  happen 
by  any  chance  to  be  the  Vela  Negra,  Placido?" 

A  scene  such  as  this  had  happened  before  many  times. 
A  half  dozen  desert  rats  were  even  then  in  the  sierra  wil- 
derness beyond  the  yellow  desert,  each  trailing  it  alone 
among  the  peaks,  each  solitary  waif  alert  for  rock  and 
"sign,"  skulking  from  the  Yaquis;  and  each  with  the 
smelter  surgeon's  beans  and  tortillas  tied  into  a  corner 
of  his  blanket. 

Placido's  sandals  fell  like  pads  in  the  dust,  pattering 
down  the  hill  toward  the  clustering  adobes.  Krag  turned 
back  to  the  assay  office  with  his  bits  of  rock. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

The  Phantom  Mine 

KRAG  never  left  Maisie  behind,  if  he  could  help 
it.  He  rarely  left  Bun  Chubbuck  behind.  Yet 
the  gray  eyes  seemed  to  be  unseeing.  He 
wanted  Maisie  along  for  himself.  He  wanted  Bunny 
along  for  Maisie  to  talk  to.  The  desert  and  sierra  were 
a  prescription.  They  were  good  for  Maisie.  Had  it 
been  necessary  to  buy  them,  at  no  matter  what  price, 
and  the  hot,  dry  winds  thrown  in,  Krag  would  have 
thought  them  cheap,  for  browning  Maisie's  creamy  skin, 
for  ruffling  her  hair,  for  making  her  toss  back  her  head 
in  the  luxury  of  deep  breaths,  for  the  dancing  and  crisp 
sparkles  in  her  blue  eyes.  Others  of  the  smelter 
settlement  who  cared  to  go  along  were  welcome,  but 
the  others  had  early  acquired  discretion.  Krag's  outings 
across  the  sands  did  not  have  the  name  of  picnics.  "  They 
were,"  said  the  superintendent,  "roughing  it  down  to 
the  brass  tacks.  They  weren't  country  club  stunts. 
They  were  the  real  business. " 

But  to  Maisie  and  Chubbuck  it  was  no  extraordinary 
thing,  when  Krag  looked  twice  on  a  rock  brought  him  by 
one  of  his  desert  rats,  to  mount  little  mustangs,  with 
sheathed  rifles  under  their  stirrup  leathers,  and  ride 
with  him  from  Saturday  noon  till  midnight,  camp  in  the 

104 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  105 

mountains  where  the  desert  rat  led  them,  spend  Sunday 
morning  there,  and  toward  daybreak  Monday  see  the 
smelter  stack  again.  For  Maisie  the  stack  stood  for 
Maisie's  baby.  The  nearer  the  stack,  the  nearer  that 
baby,  who  was  necessarily  left  behind  with  one  or  another 
of  her  worshippers  among  the  smelter  women. 

After  the  first  few  trips  the  bit  of  rock  in  the  affair 
seemed  to  Krag's  wife  and  friend  an  incident  merely. 
Nothing  ever  happened,  and  they  were  no  more  ex- 
citable over  the  chance  of  a  bonanza.  Krag  would  fol- 
low the  outcropping  pointed  out  by  his  desert  rat,  stoop 
for  chunks  of  float,  perhaps  drop  one  in  his  pocket  for 
future  assay,  and  coming  back  to  camp  would  say: 
"Well,  let's  eat,"  and  seem  to  forget  all  about  it.  So 
far  he  had  not  "denounced" —  located — a  single  prospect. 

But  Maisie  and  Chubbuck  felt  that,  once  this  silent 
man  did  show  interest,  it  must  warrant  excitement  in  a 
lesser  nature.  A  lighter  head,  indeed,  might  have  been 
turned  by  some  of  the  indications  that  Krag  passed  over. 
Krag,  however,  had  his  own  system.  Of  a  prospect 
he  exacted  both  high  grade  and  width  of  deposit  and  both 
must  show  practically  at  the  grass  roots.  Aught  less,  he 
mentioned  to  Chub,  could  neither  build  a  railroad  nor 
break  his  heart.  In  his  secret  soul  Krag  was  wondering  if, 
after  all,  the  curse  of  futility  were  dogging  him.  But 
doggedly  he  kept  on.  He  thought  of  Hacklette  and  his 
promise  to  Hacklette.  He  scorned  an  antagonist  on  equal 
terms,  but  wealth  multiplied  one  antagonist  into  many. 
By  wealth  an  antagonist  projected  his  prowess  by  the 
prowess  that  he  could  buy.  Krag  proposed  to  overcome 
that  handicap.  Then  on  Hacklette  first,  he  meant  to  jus- 


106  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

tify  his  existence,  not  as  a  unit  of  spawn  on  the  earth,  but 
as  a  man  as  those  three  letters  spelled  the  word  to  him. 
He  would  exemplify  mastery  of  the  thing  he  lived  on. 

They  had  three  days,  and  needed  as  many,  to  verify 
Placido's  tale  of  a  lost  mine.  May  the  fifth,  one  of  the 
days  that  Mexico  celebrates,  fell  on  a  Friday.  Saturday, 
consequently,  was  as  good  as  a  holiday,  after  which 
came  Sunday.  With  pack  burros,  water  skins  filled,  and 
armament,  they  started  Thursday  afternoon.  They 
camped  at  midnight.  By  sun-up  they  were  again  trail- 
ing the  desert. 

The  way  was  heavy.  The  little  caravan  moved  in  a 
stirring  of  powdered  mist  that  moved  with  it.  Ahead 
the  jagged  mountain  wall  was  plum-coloured,  splashed 
with  lavender,  mauve,  rose,  and  rust,  with  tints  of  the 
opal,  aflame,  vivid ,  and  near  enough,  they  seemed,  to  touch . 
The  three  Americans  knew  by  now  the  desert's  fascina- 
tion. It  had  grown  into  them,  and  they  responded  with 
a  craving-like  thirst  of  the  over-soul.  However  far  they 
might  roam  hereafter,  they  knew  that  they  would  long 
to  come  back,  and  would  come,  if  they  could. 

Yet  the  call  was  of  death  rather  than  of  life,  and  at 
first  it  was  terrifying  and  dreadful.  A  living  thing  was 
an  isolated  thing,  and  alive  only  because  it  was  a  rare, 
brave  thing.  Life  nowhere  crowded  here.  It  was  of  a 
desolate  exclusiveness.  Only  gray  tufts  of  chaparral 
flecked  the  waste.  Krag  had  an  affection  for  these  in- 
domitable Spartans.  Tramping  for  miles  on  foot  next 
his  wife's  stirrup,  his  horse's  bridle  over  his  arm,  he  talked 
of  it.  He  never  talked  much,  and  never  for  the  sake  of 
talking,  but  it  had  become  a  habit  with  him  to  strive  on 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  107 

and  on  for  Maisie's  comradeship,  hoping  that  yet  she 
might  chatter  with  him  as  she  did  with  Bunny. 

"There's  a  tumble-weed,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  drab, 
leafless  little  bush  hardly  bigger  than  his  fist.  "See 
it  rolling  along  there,  just  wherever  this  wind  blows  it. 
Maisie  girl,  what's  your  opinion  of  a  poor  fool  thing  like 
that  trying  to  grow?" 

Or  he  showed  them,  here  a  greasewood  almost  buried 
under  the  sand,  there  another  fallen  over,  its  roots  under- 
mined by  the  wind.  He  showed  them  an  organ  cactus 
cut  through  by  the  sand  blast.  The  sun  scorched  the 
soil  beyond  the  point  where  plants  are  thought  to  live. 
The  sky  often  withheld  the  dew.  Aught  of  leaf  or  fibre 
hinted  of  food  to  every  ravenous  desert  animal.  But 
Krag  showed  them  the  thorns  that  kept  off  the  fanged 
jaws.  He  showed  them  the  hairy  air  cushions  that 
clothed  a  plant  against  the  blaze  of  day  and  the  chill 
of  night,  or  the  shellac  covering  that  armoured  it,  and  he 
told  them  why  the  leaves  grew  small,  or  why  there  were 
no  leaves  at  all,  since  then  the  sun  might  not  suck  forth 
all  the  precious  moisture.  And  then  he  bent  forward 
in  his  stride,  and  his  lips  brushed  his  wife's  riding  skirt. 

At  times  he  looked  up  at  her,  but  not  hopefully.  True, 
the  pallor  of  brow  and  cheek  was  no  longer  there.  At  the 
worst,  it  was  but  faintly  suggested  under  the  desert's 
tempered  alchemy  of  tan.  He  was  gratefully  triumphant 
in  that  alchemy  wrought  by  his  merciless  colleague,  the 
desert.  Often  and  often  he  looked,  though  mostly  she 
talked  with  Chubbuck,  and  as  for  himself  he  had  little 
to  say,  and  the  tenderness  that  racked  him  with  pain 
softened  the  remorseless  glint  in  his  eyes.  His  heart  as 


108  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

he  looked  up  at  her  was  his  intelligence.  It  told  him 
that  here  was  a  human  soul,  one  that  yearned  to 
cling  for  warmth,  to  nestle  for  affection,  his  to  cherish, 
to  make  for  it  the  minute  of  this  life  a  transcendant 
minute  of  joy;  a  soul  that  was  his  soul's  responsibility, 
lest  having  that  dear  essence  in  his  keeping  he  mar  it. 
So  he  bent  in  his  tracks  like  that,  until  his  lips  brushed 
her  riding  skirt. 

She  had  turned  to  Chubbuck,  answering  a  question. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  she  was  saying,  "I  dearly  hope  they 
will  come,  though  I  don't  know  how  they'll  like  our 
desert,  do  you,  Bunny?  Jim's  thorns  would  scare  away 
touring  cars  too,  and  anywhere  papa  can't  go  in  his  tour- 
ing car What  was  that?" 

She  turned  and  looked  down,  but  Krag  had  straight- 
ened, and  she  thought  it  only  his  elbow  hitting  her  stirrup. 
He  quickly  averted  his  head.  He  knew  that  the  look  she 
dreaded  was  on  his  face,  come  there  at  mention  of  her 
father,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  see  the  shrinking  in  her 
wistful  blue  eyes.  In  the  same  impulse  she  swayed  from 
him  toward  Bunny. 

Krag    mounted.     Hatred    was    in    the    saddle    now. 

He  took  one  of  Pldcido's  rocks  from  his  pocket  and 
handled  it  musingly  as  he  rode.  Maisie  and  Bunny 
ceased  their  talking.  They  had  never  seen  him  intent 
so  on  a  rock  before.  They  stirred  restively,  not 
knowing  why.  They  had  only  his  profile,  under  his 
high  peaked  sombrero  with  its  silver  rope,  a  profile 
harshly  carved,  hard  of  mouth  and  jaw  and  chin. 
The  eye  under  its  heavy  brow  was  narrowed  to  a  slit 
against  the  wind  and  glare.  His  sallow  features  had 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  109 

taken  the  desert's  own  tint.  "In  that  climate,"  a 
quaint  old  chronicler  once  said,  "the  people  turn  yellow. 
It  may  be  that  the  desire  for  gold  which  fills  their  hearts 
shines  forth  in  their  faces."  Bunny's  skin  was  only 
burned.  The  blushes  could  still  mount  through  it. 

Krag  looked  up,  at  the  trail  ahead,  and  only  then 
noticed,  seemingly,  that  he  was  the  object  of  their  interest 
and  their  silence.  He  bent  his  gaze  on  them  quizzically. 

The  suspense  in  cherubic  Bunny's  expression  did  not 
escape  him. 

"It  is  really  a  black  ore,"  he  said,  as  if  to  continue 
his  thoughts  aloud  and  gratify  their  curiosity.  "You 
know  what  that  means,  Chub?  For  if  it  were  reddish, 
what  then?  It  would  mean  that  surface  waters  had 
oxidized  it,  consequently,  that  it  lay  near  the  surface. 
But  this  — "he  tossed  the  rock,  caught  it,  meditatively 
—  "is  dark  and  undecomposed.  The  surface  waters  of  a 
hundred  years,  or  a  hundred  thousand,  haven't  had  a  chance 
at  it.  It's  still  a  sulphur  base.  It's  a  silver  sulphuret. 
Consequently  —  what?  "  He  flung  a  leg  over  the  pommel 
of  his  saddle,  and  looked  past  Maisie  at  Chubbuck. 

Chubbuck's  uneasy  attention  quickened.  His  in- 
nocent soul  grew  aware  of  temptation.  Krag  noted  that, 
but  went  on,  as  a  geologist  fondly  absorbed  in  his  de- 
ductions. "  So  this  rock  in  my  hand  is  to-day,  chemically, 
just  what  it  has  been  for  some  millions  of  years  since  the 
earth  was  a  melting  pot,  before  this  desert  was  the  bottom 
of  a  sea,  before  even  a  two-legged  creature  needed  a  silver 
dime  for  a  loaf  of  bread,  or  bushels  of  'em  for  a  touring 
car."  He  tossed  the  rock  again.  "There's  a  dime  in 
my  little  bric-a-brac  here.  It's  been  waiting  for  me  all 


110 

this  time.  What  do  you  think,  Maisie  girl?  Isn't  that 
a  lot  of  patience  for  even  an  inanimate  thing?" 

"Eldridge  says,"  said  Chubbuck,"  that  the  piece  you 
gave  him  would  run  four  hundred  and  thirty  ounces." 

Krag  nodded  impatiently.  This  was  not  pertinent. 
It  was  trivial  interruption.  It  was  elbowing  him  from 
the  marvels  of  cosmic  science. 

"And,"  Bunny  went  on,  "a  trace  of  gold." 

This  time  Maisie's  eyes  opened  anxiously.  The  little 
maternal  person  was  disturbed  by  these  signs  in  Bunny. 
Bunny  should  not  meddle  in  mines.  He  would  never  be 
old  enough.  Bunny,  casting  up  figures,  had  so  far  done 
it  wisely,  academically,  platonically.  So  many  ounces  of 
silver  to  the  ton,  so  many  ounces  of  gold  to  the  ton; 
these  were  figures  only.  He  cast  them  up  into  dollars 
and  cents;  again,  figures  only.  He  did  not  see  the  men 
who  brought  the  ounces  and  tons  to  the  furnaces.  He 
did  not  see  the  men  who  pocketed  the  dollars  and  cents. 
But  he  saw  Jim  Krag  very  distinctly. 

"What's  more,"  said  Bunny,  "it  carried  lead.  I  don't 
remember  how  many  units  Mike  said,  but  anyhow  it  was 
enough  to  mean  a  premium  on  the  ore  instead  of  a  charge 
for  smelting." 

Krag  was  studying  the  rock  as  if  it  were  a  key  to  the 
cosmos. 

"Jim,"  cried  Bunny,  casting  up  the  figures,  "don't 
you  know  that  that  would  net,  at  the  smelter,  something 
like  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars  a  ton?" 

"So,"  said  Krag,  summing  up  his  own  reflections, 
"Placido  must  be  right.  It  can't  be  an  outcropping." 

Thus  he  brought  the  chain  of  his  meditations  to  the 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  111 

last  link  of  Bunny's  numerals,  and  the  two  chains  were 
welded,  remorselessly. 

"You  don't  mean,"  protested  Bunny,  "that  it  came 
from  a  mine?  You're  not  thinking  of  buying  a  mine, 
Jim?" 

"On  my  income?" 

"Then     how     did     your     prospector  —  where  — 
Bunny  gestured  at  the  rock  in  Krag's  hand. 

Krag  made  no  reply  in  words.  Chubbuck  saw  his 
twisted  smile,  full  of  meaning,  and  saw  him  nod  back- 
ward over  his  shoulder  at  the  pack  burros  and  drivers 
straggling  behind  them.  One  of  the  burros  was  loaded  on 
either  flank  with  a  great  coil  of  rope. 

"It's  a  —  an  abandoned  shaft,"  cried  Chubbuck, 
"and  you're  going  down  into  it!" 

Krag  looked  at  him,  and  Bunny  flushed.  Of  course, 
an  abandoned  shaft  with  four-hundred-ounce  ore  in  it 
so  near  the  smelter  would  have  been  found  out  long 
ago. 

"No,"  said  Krag,  "there  are  no  signs  of  the  shaft 
left." 

"Why,  Jim,"  cried  Maisie.  "it  must  be  a  —  a  phantom 
mine!" 

Instantly,  on  hearing  Maisie's  voice,  Krag  was  willing 
to  explain. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said,  "only  the  Yaquis  must  have 
done  a  clean  job,  filling  it  up,  covering  it  over,  making 
a  genuine  mina  tapada  of  it,  as  Placido  says.  There's 
not  even  a  stone  left  of  the  old  real  —  fortress,  you  know 
—  such  as  the  Spaniards  used  to  build  around  a  shaft. 
For  centuries,  until  Placido  came  along,  the  desert  rats 


112  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

have  been  going  over  the  spot  without  once  smelling  a 
grain  of  ore. " 

Maisie's  brows  crinkled  in  perplexity.  "Pshaw, 

Jim she  gave  way  to  exasperation  —  "you're 

either  fooling  us,  or  your  Placido  is  fooling  you." 

"No,  Maisie,  I'm  not,  and  he's  not." 

"But  you're  telling  us, "  insisted  Bunny,  "or  letting  him 
tell  you,  that  he  smelled  it  out,  the  Lord  knows  how." 

"Suppose,"  said  Krag  calmly,  "we  go  back  three  hun- 
dred years.  It  won't  take  long.  We  find  the  Spaniards, 
with  their  Indian  slaves,  working  our  phantom  mine. 
They  have  sunk  on  a  rich  vein  in  the  side  of  a  mountain, 
They  follow  the  lode  down  as  far  as  it  goes.  Then  they 
drift  —  you  understand,  Maisie;  they  tunnel  horizontally 
—  and  dig  out  the  vein  as  they  go.  And  one  day  while 
they  are  digging  in  the  breast  of  their  drift,  what  hap- 
pens?—  The  tunnel  caves  in  behind  them,  that's  all. 
They  are  there  yet." 

"Oh!"  Maisie  pictured  starving,  entombed  men;  not 
their  skeletons. 

"Then  what?"  demanded  Chubbuck. 

"I  told  you.  Then  the  Yaquis  fill  up  the  shaft.  Also 
they  murder  the  Spaniards  left  above  ground,  so  that 
no  more  white  men  shall  know  of  that  mine  and  come  to 
enslave  them. " 

"But  your  Placido?    How " 

"I  see,"  said  Krag,  his  lips  twisting,  "the  mystery 
remains.  Well,  then,  I  should  have  said  that  when  the 
Spaniards  tunnelled,  they  tunnelled  with  the  slope  of  the 
mountain,  so  that  each  foot  brought  them  a  little 
nearer  to  the  surface.  Finally  they  drifted  into  a  pocket; 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  113 

at  least,  the  vein  widened  and  bulged  upward,  and  they 
went  to  work  digging  it  out  —  stoping,  it's  called,  Maisie 

—  scooping  out  a  wide,  high  chamber  in  their  tunnel. 
They  were  still  doing  it  when  the  tunnel  behind  them 
caved  in,  and  it  was  in  this  stope  where  they  perished. " 

"But  Placido?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Placido.    Well,  he  was  down  in  this  stope. " 

"Jim,  three  hundred  years  ago!" 

Krag  laughed.  Maisie  was  interested.  "No,  no,  the 
other  day.  The  Spaniards  had  stoped  up  close  to  the 
surface,  and  the  crust  over  this  tomb  was  pretty  thin, 
so  thin  that  three  hundred  years  of  rain  wore  in  the  roof. 
At  last,  just  a  little  while  before  our  famous  Placido 
passed  that  way,  the  roof  caved  in,  and  our  famous 
Placido  found  it.  There,  Maisie,  is  that  satisfactory?" 

For  a  time  they  rode  in  silence,  letting  imagination  feed. 

"But  —  see  here,  Jim,"  objected  Bunny,  "if  the 
vein  runs  with  the  slope,  and  it  has  been  dug  out  as  far 
as  you  say,  then  there  can't  be  much  of  it  before  it  crops 
out  on  the  surface,  and  there's  an  end  to  your  vein. " 

"And  others  would  have  found  that  outcropping  ages 
ago,"  added  Krag.  "But  the  surface  slopes  up  again, 
Chub,  just  beyond  the  stope,  and  on  this  surface  the  out- 
crop of  the  vein  is  entirely  obliterated,  and  the  vein  goes 

—  the  Lord  you  mentioned  knows  where." 

"You've  probably  got  " —  Bunny's  eyes  were  glisten- 
ing —  "a  —  bonanza! " 

Krag's  heavy  shoulders  lifted.  This  was  the  business 
side  of  it;  his  business.  But  his  friend  was  muttering: 
"Two  hundred,  three  hundred  dollars  net  —  Lord,  Lord ! " 

"Jim,"  cried  Maisie,  "what  does  he  mean?" 


114  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"I  mean,"  said  Chubbuck,  "that  soon  Jim  will  be 
drawing  the  smelter's  check  for  two,  three,  four,  five 
hundred  —  a  thousand  dollars  a  day. " 

"Yet,"  said  Krag,  "there'd  have  to  be  a  railroad  first, 
across  this  desert,  and  I'd  have  to  —  yes,  I'd  have  to 
let  others  in  on  the  bonanza." 

im,"  said  Maisie  timidly,  "are  you  —  that  is,  Jim, 
if  you  must  let  others  share  in  this  —  oh,  Jim,  dear,  I 
mean,  you're  not  forgetting  papa?"  It  was  the  chance, 
she  thought,  the  chance  for  reconciliation  between 
those  two. 

Krag  abruptly  bent  his  head  to  the  pommel,  to  the  rock 
in  his  hand,  that  she  might  not  see  his  face. 

"No,  Maisie,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'm  not  forgetting 
your  father. " 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

The  Aristocrat  of  the  Charnel  House 

AFER  a  time  they  perceived  a  foot-hill  off  to  the 
right,    then    two    more    on    their    left.     These 
mauve  warts   of    the  desert,  ancient,    barren, 
eroded,  seemed  to  have  swelled  there  but    a  moment 
since,  breaking  the  ring  of  the  horizon.     After  an  hour, 
more  foot-hills  rose  in  front  of  them,  and  thus  gradually 
the  flat  waste  gave  way  to  another  barony  of  the  wilder- 
ness.    The  sierra  was  closing  about  them. 

Finally  they  were  in  a  wide  ravine,  banked  by  the  hills. 
The  sand  under  foot  became  moist.  The  sand  grew  to 
pebbles.  Next  their  horses  trod  a  bed  of  rock,  littered 
over  with  small  bowlders,  and  there  was  a  tiny,  trickling 
stream.  The  hills  came  nearer,  growing  together,  and 
suddenly  were  mountains,  high,  rugged,  overhanging, 
precipitous.  The  little  brook  was  making  itself  heard, 
as  it  tumbled  and  raced  over  green-hued  ledges.  The 
ravine  narrowed.  The  bulk  of  mountains  crowded  al- 
most on  their  toes.  The  shadows  deepened.  A  de- 
pressing sense  of  something  lost  crept  over  the  moving 
human  dots  in  the  bottom  of  the  gorge.  At  last  they 
remembered.  It  was  the  blazing  sun  that  was  gone, 
screened  from  them  as  by  a  smoked  glass.  Looking  up, 
they  saw  the  sky,  a  gossamer  of  blue  laid  over  the 

115 


116  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

cracked  earth.  In  the  azure  down,  pin-point  stars  were 
twinkling. 

"How's  this  for  a  real  canon,  Maisie?  "  asked  Krag,  as  a 
physician  might  ask  if  his  medicine  was  pleasant  to  take. 

"It's  grand  —  grand!"  she  murmured.  "Oh,  think, 
let's  give  it  a  name. " 

"Can't,"  said  Chubbuck.  "It's  already  the  Barranca 
Quebrante. " 

Maisie  was  disappointed.  "The  breaking  gorge," 
she  translated.  "Pshaw,  what  a  chance  thrown  away! 
Beside, "  she  insisted,  "that's  not  —  why,  not  grammati- 
cal. What  does  it  break?  If  it  were  even  the  Bar- 
ranca Quebrada  —  the  broken  gorge  —  now  that  would 
mean  something.  But  whoever  heard  of  a  gorge  breaking 
anything?" 

It  was  referred  to  Placido,  and  Placido  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  A  tortilla  was  a  tortilla.  A  serape  was  a 
scrape.  The  Barranca  Quebrante  was  the  Barranca 
Quebrante.  But  he  didn't  know  why.  Why,  senores,  was 
a  why  desired? 

A  little  farther  on,  the  wall  of  the  gorge  on  their  right 
opened  into  a  ravine,  which  drained  the  slope  of  a  moun- 
tain on  either  side  like  the  valley  of  a  roof.  Placido  hailed 
them,  saying  that  here  was  the  best  place  to  camp. 
Krag  ordered  his  burro  drivers  to  pitch  Maisie's  tent, 
which  was  the  only  tent,  near  the  brook;  then  struck  off 
up  the  ravine  with  Placido,  Maisie,  and  Chubbuck  to 
have  a  look  at  the  lost  mine. 

Answering  a  question  from  Krag,  Placido  touched  his 
sombrero  and  waved  an  arm  over  the  mountain  slope 
to  the  left. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  117 

"You  asked  him  where  the  slope  is?"  demanded 
Chubbuck. 

"No,"saidKrag,  "for  we  already  know  it  must  be  almost 
under  the  bed  of  this  ravine.  I  asked  him  which  side 
it's  on.  It's  on  that  side. "  His  arm  swept  the  moun- 
tain rising  on  their  left.  "The  shaft  was  sunk  not 
very  far  up  the  slope.  From  the  bottom  of  the  shaft 
they  drifted  toward  the  ravine.  They  would  have 
passed  on  under  the  bed  of  the  ravine,  following  the  vein 
into  the  mountain  on  that  side. "  He  swept  the  mountain 
to  the  right. 

"And  the  poor  Spaniards"  said  Maisie,  "they're 
in  there!"  She  stared  pityingly  at  the  sierra's  mass 
under  her. 

"That's  all  right,  Maisie  girl.     They're  held  down." 

"But  where,  Jim?"  Chubbuck  insisted.  "Where's 
the  stope?" 

Krag  nodded  ahead  at  the  lean  desert  rat  plodding 
up  the  ravine's  dried  bed.  "The  answer's  in  those 
whipcord  legs,"  he  said. 

"But,"  said  Maisie  after  a  little,  "the  answer  seems  to 
be  lost." 

Placido  had  stopped.  His  eyes  roved,  locating  a 
remembered  ledge  here,  a  scrub  oak  there.  His  fingers 
went  into  his  coal  black  hair. 

"Senor,  it's  —  gone!" 

"  Gone !     What,  a  hole  in  the  ground  ?  " 

The  dazed  fellow  smiled  weakly.     "Yes,  senor, " 

Something  about  this  struck  Maisie  as  funny,  and  she 
began  to  laugh.  The  vanishing  of  a  bonanza,  like  break- 
ing a  leg,  is  not  usually  humorous,  but  when  it  is,  one 


118  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

has  a  unique  treat.  The  unexpected  thrill  of  merriment 
made  Krag  thank  his  bonanza  for  vanishing.  But 
Placido  was  woefully  distressed. 

"The  favour,  senor,"  he  pleaded.  "Let  me  see  one 
of  the  rocks  in  your  pocket. " 

"Is  the  man  dippy?"  exclaimed  Chubbuck.  "He 
might  as  well  try  to  find  a  dog  by  his  bite. " 

"It's  not  that,  Chub,"  said  Krag.  "Placido's  universe 
is  tottering.  Look  at  him.  He  sees  that  the  rocks  he 
gave  me  are  real,  and  they  help  him  to  believe  that  he 
got  them  from  a  real  mine.  A  dog's  bite  would  assist 
you  to  the  same  certainty  about  the  dog.  And  yet, 
Maisie  girl "  —  so  much  breath  was  for  Maisie  only  — 
"you  see  there  is  not  a  sign  of  a  hole  in  the  ground.  What 
would  you  do  about  it?" 

"Look  for  it,"  said  Chubbuck. 

"This  invaluable  Supernal!"  grunted  Krag. 

He  had  taken  his  rifle  from  its  case,  and  was  peering 
up  one  and  the  other  slope,  questioning  each  bowlder 
that  might  hide  a  Yaqui.  Chubbuck  understood.  With- 
out a  word  the  two  men  rode  in  close  on  either  side  of 
Maisie,  yet  casually,  so  that  she  saw  no  purpose  in  it, 
until  their  horses  almost  touched  noses  in  front  of  her 
horse's  nose.  Each  man  recalled,  hopefully,  that  a 
company  of  soldiers  had  passed  the  smelter  a  few  days 
before,  bound  across  the  desert.  The  chances  were  that 
the  soldiers  had  driven  the  Yaquis  farther  back  into 
the  mountains.  Nevertheless,  Maisie  was  dismounted 
in  the  first  sheltering  gully  that  offered,  and  when  the 
burro  with  the  coil  of  rope  overtook  them,  Krag  sent  its 
driver  back  to  camp  for  the  rest  of  his  peons.  These 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  119 

peons  were  old  deer  hunters,  carefully  chosen,  and  Krag 
had  made  them  discard  their  muzzle-loaders  for  American 
rifles  which  he  had  borrowed  from  the  company. 

Krag  and  Chubbuck  persuaded  Maisie  that  she 
needed  a  rest,  and  exacted  her  promise  to  wait  for  them 
while  they  and  Placido  explored  for  the  lost  mine.  They 
did  not  venture  far,  for  the  desert  rat  was  positive  about 
certain  of  his  landmarks.  The  mine  was  bound  to  be 
near.  But  when  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  locating  the 
spot,  a  something  unfamiliar,  he  could  not  tell  what, 
intervened  and  upset  his  reckoning.  Then  he  floundered 
lugubriously,  and  asked  to  see  the  specimens  again.  Bun 
Chubbuck,  for  all  his  scoffing,  commenced  to  share  the 
bewildered  fellow's  intuition  of  something  uncanny, 
when  Maisie  called  them.  Her  voice  carried  excitement, 
eagerness. 

They  found  her  in  her  gully,  kicking  clods  into  a  heap. 
"There,  Jim,"  she  said,  pointing  the  toe  of  her  boot, 
"there's  your  old  mine!" 

"Well,  by  jinks,"  cried  ^Chubbuck,  "by  jinks!  But 
Maisie  —  how  in  the  world  — 

"Just  from  sitting  here  with  nothing  to  do,"  said  Mai- 
sie. "  I  began  thinking  I  could  dig  a  mine  while  you  men 
were  looking  for  one.  So  I  started  to  dig,  don't  you  see, 
with  my  foot,  and  then  I  struck  —  that!"  Again  the 
contemptuous  little  boot  pointed. 

Scooping  out  a  basin  in  the  dust  and  stones,  she  had 
come  to  a  flooring  of  logs.  She  had  sifted  dust  between 
the  chinks  until  that  seemed  an  indefinite  procedure. 
Apparently  there  was  no  bottom  underneath,  and  in  one 
ecstatic  second  she  knew  that  she  had  found  the  mine. 


120  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"And  it'll  have  to  be  her  mine,  won't  it,  Jim?"  said 
Bunny. 

Senorl"  It  was  Placido's  exclamation.  He  was 
smoothing  the  stiff  black  hair  on  his  peaked  cranium. 
"1  understand  at  last.  It  was  this."  He  indicated  the 
little  gully.  "This  was  not  here  before. " 

"Not  here!     What?" 

He  shook  his  head  emphatically.  "No,  senor,  this 
arroyo  has  been  fabricated.  Why?  To  hide  again  this 
mina  tapada  that  betrayed  itself  to  your  servitor. " 

Sharp  eyes  were  needed,  but  the  desert  rat  was  telling 
the  truth.  The  gully  had  not  even  been  dug  out.  It  had 
been  built.  Dust  and  rock  had  been  carried  there  to  raise 
its  banks,  which  were  graded  off  on  either  side  to  conform 
to  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  The  same  patient  cunning 
had  made  the  short  little  ditch  resemble  erosion  by 
water.  Its  bed  was  covered  a  half-foot  thick  with 
pebbles.  When  these  were  scraped  away,  there  was 
revealed  a  raft  of  logs,  set  into  the  ground  even  with  the 
surface.  Krag's  peons  pulled  out  these  logs,  and  the 
desert  rat  stood,  pointing  down  into  a  gaping  black  hole. 

Chubbuck  strode  round  to  Krag.  "  Jim, "  he  whispered, 
"I  believe  it's  the  —  the  Veto,  Negra!"  His  face  was 
white  under  its  blistering.  "Wasn't  this  hole's  history 
the  history  of  the  fabulous  Veta  Negra?"  he  rattled  on. 
"Weren't  there  Spaniards  entombed  or  murdered? 
Wasn't  there  a  shaft  filled  up  by  Indians?  Wasn't 
every  vestige  destroyed,  and  the  secret  preserved?  And 
look  here,  here  was  this  hole  covered  up  again, 
the  minute  it  shows  itself  after  all  these  centuries!" 

Krag  laughed  in  the  white  face.    "Well,"  he  said,  "we 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  121 

might  call  her  the  Vela  Negra.  It  would  help  to  sell 
stock.  But  let's  look  first  and  see  if  we  want  to  sell  any. " 

"Jim,"  cried  Maisie,  "you're  not  going  down  there?" 
But  she  knew  that  he  was. 

"  I  ought  to  go,  too, "  said  Chubbuck.  "  I've  heard  that 
a  man  ought  never  to  go  into  a  mine  alone. " 

"Bunny!"  exclaimed  Maisie. 

Krag  heeded  neither  of  them.  He  knotted  the  rope 
about  a  log  that  his  peons  had  laid  across  the  hole.  He 
went  down  hand  under  hand.  The  last  he  saw,  before 
the  brink  of  the  hole  shut  them  from  his  sight,  was  Maisie 
and  Chubbuck  peering  breathlessly  down  at  him.  Maisie 
had  to  accept  his  daring  as  a  matter  of  course,  while 
at  the  suggestion  of  daring  in  Chubbuck  she  was  hor- 
rified. But  her  husband  did  not  explain  so  easily  the 
tense  look  on  her  face  as  she  leaned  over  and  peered  down 
at  him.  That  look  he  carried  with  him  into  the  dark 
cavern  below. 

The  darkness  thickened.  His  eyes  saw  nothing  of 
walls  or  bottom.  He  might  have  been  the  one  atom  of 
matter  poised  in  space,  himself  the  universe.  But  his 
ears  caught,  faint  and  thin,  a  shriek  overhead,  and 
something  passed  him  downward,  stirring  the  dead  air. 
It  crashed  and  shattered  on  the  bottom,  and  the  cavern 
groaned  with  stifled  echoes.  He  knew  what  had  happened. 
His  weight  on  rope  and  log  had  loosened  a  bit  of  the  crust, 
and  a  slab  of  rock  had  fallen.  He  looked  up.  A  head 
was  silhouetted  on  the  edge  of  the  jagged  patch  of  light. 
He  heard  Bun  Chubbuck  calling  down,  as  one  who  dreads 
that  he  may  be  calling  to  the  dead. 

Krag  would  not  answer  at  once.    The  possibilities  in 


122  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

his  death,  paradise,  should  first  flash  across  Bun  Chub- 
buck's  mind.  Krag  knew,  for  all  Bunny's  loyal  heart, 
that  just  such  an  elysian  bower  would  rear  itself  like  a 
fiend's  mirage.  He  waited  exactly  long  enough,  and 
hallooed,  as  from  the  tomb:  "Well,  well,  what  is  it?" 

Abruptly  he  remembered  Maisie.  For  it  was  Maisie 
who  had  screamed.  Was  she,  perhaps,  lying  white  and 
lifeless,  and  only  clumsy  Bun  Chubbuck  to  bring  her  back 
to  this  world!  Krag  began  climbing  up  again,  when  a 
second  head  outlined  itself  in  the  patch  of  light.  He 
thrilled  in  gratitude  to  his  science  that  had  so  strengthened 
her  frail  heart.  He  sawr  her  arm  stretching  over  the  void, 
and  saw  Chubbuck's  hand  guide  her  hand  to  the  rope. 
As  she  clutched  it,  he  understood.  She  was  assuring 
herself  that  his  weight  was  still  on  it.  The  falling  rock 
had  not  plucked  him  from  his  hold.  From  the  golden 
light  above,  down  to  him  in  the  utter  night,  the  vibration 
of  the  rope  with  her  hand  around  it  came  like  a  caress, 
and  entered  his  being  as  a  message.  He  did  not  think 
of  that  then,  but  he  did  long  afterward.  He  saw  Chub- 
buck's  arm  draw  her  back.  He  grunted,  and  lowered 
himself  on  down. 

When  he  stood  on  the  bottom,  closed  round  by  a  dense 
mustiness  like  the  diseased  breath  of  earth,  he  lighted 
a  candle.  There  were  no  drafts  of  a  subterranean  laby- 
rinth to  snuff  it  out.  The  one  egress  was  the  small 
dazzling  hole  sixty  feet  overhead  through  which  he  had 
come.  Neither  were  there  gases  to  smother  the  flame, 
or  his  own  flame  of  life,  since  Placido  had  been  down 
here  already,  after  borrowing  all  the  lariats  in  his  native 
village,  five  leagues  away.  Slowly  the  candle  light  grew, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  123 

and  its  flickering  circle  crawled  farther  out  upon  the  dark- 
ness. The  pitchy  black  dissolved  into  vague  shadows, 
the  shadows  into  clumsy  shapes  of  jutting  rock. 

Here  was  the  last  chamber  of  the  Spaniard's  treasure 
house.  Here  their  devious  burrowing  opened  on  a  vaulted 
cathedral.  This  far  they  had  followed  the  bonanza 
vein  under  the  mountain,  and  here  the  vein  had  swollen 
big  and  tumorous,  so  that  they  had  hollowed  out  the 
cathedral.  Naked  Indians  had  carried  out  these  tons  of 
rock,  gangue,  and  ore.  They  had  crawled  and  squeezed 
through  the  tunnels  with  it,  and  staggered  up  notched 
timbers  with  it,  one  sack  at  a  time  that  was  corpse  heavy, 
and  one  sack  at  a  time  they  had  dropped  it,  with  sweat 
and  anguish,  upon  the  earth's  surface  under  the  sun;  and 
in  Spain  armadas  and  churches  were  built  and  upstart 
grandees  stood  covered  before  their  king.  And  here  was 
an  American  named  Krag,  to  take  up  the  tragedy  where 
the  old  tragedy  had  left  off  three  hundred  years  ago. 

But  Krag  was  not  greatly  interested  in  Spaniards.  A 
drama  some  millions  of  years  yet  farther  back  had  pre- 
cedence. Compared  with  that,  Castilian  bones  were  his 
contemporaries.  He  slowly  moved  the  candle  over  his 
head,  bringing  the  feeble  rays  on  the  walls  of  naked  rock. 
A  page  of  geology  lay  here.  It  was  the  earth's  memoirs 
in  the  original  manuscript,  spread  in  molten  ink  when  the 
earth  was  hot  with  youth.  Now  they  were  tablets  of 
stone,  being  read  by  an  intruding  creature  under  the  light 
of  a  candle. 

A  black  hole  gaped  in  the  cavern's  wall.  It  was 
where  the  drift  entered  the  stope.  A  something  on  the 
ground  gleamed  yellowish  white.  Krag  recognized  the 


124  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

breast  bone  and  ribs  of  a  skeleton.  It  was  but  human 
to  turn  from  earth's  memoirs  of  millions  of  years  to  this 
pitifully  insignificant  and  human  document.  Even  Krag 
did  so,  but  solely  on  the  chance  of  enlightening  addenda 
to  the  grander  document. 

The  skeleton  lay  on  its  side,  and  the  knees  were  ludi- 
crously drawn  to  the  breast  like  a  man  doubled  up  with  a 
stomach  ache.  Thus  the  man  had  doubled  up  when  the 
empty  stomach  was  yet  there.  Krag  bent  over  the  relic 
with  his  candle.  He  touched  a  finger  to  the  ground 
underneath.  Dry  dust,  heavy  and  grease-laden,  stuck  to 
his  finger.  This  was  departed  flesh,  and  flesh  unclothed. 
The  man  had  been  naked  in  death.  Only  the  loin  cloth, 
rotted  and  drooping  slack  on  the  pelvis,  marked  him  in 
dying  above  the  beasts.  He  had  been  an  Indian,  one 
of  the  mine  slaves,  and  therefore  was  now  an  unprofitable 
document. 

Stooping,  holding  his  candle  before  him,  Krag  stepped 
over  the  skeleton  into  the  mouth  of  the  drift.  Another 
skeleton  lay  at  his  feet.  A  little  farther  on,  the  bones  of 
two  more  were  mingled.  One  was  lying  a  little  over 
the  other,  its  bony  fingers  clutching  at  the  other's  throat, 
its  teeth  apparently  sunk  in  the  chalky  wall  of  the  other's 
fleshless  chest.  The  living  man  sneered.  Here  was 
only  a  document  of  self  —  self  in  extremis,  and  again  of 
no  profit  to  the  incarnate  selfishness  treading  among  them. 

Yet  farther  on  many  more  skeletons  were  heaped 
and  jumbled  together,  like  slain  bodies  on  a  battlefield. 
To  pass  them  in  the  narrow  tunnel,  Krag  had  to  squeeze 
close  to  the  wall,  and  beyond  he  came  into  a  cleared 
space;  cleared,  that  is,  of  the  mortal  debris  except  for 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  125 

one  lone  skeleton,  which  seemed  yet  to  master  the  whited, 
cowering  pack.  Near  it  lay  a  rusted,  broken  sabre,  deeply 
gashed  from  point  to  hilt,  and  in  the  jumbled  heap  of 
bones  there  were  cleft  skulls.  Behind  the  lone  skeleton 
the  tunnel  ended  in  a  crush  of  rock  and  splintered  timbers. 
At  that  point  the  wound  in  the  earth  had  closed,  trapping 
these  one-time  living  men  in  their  treasure  chamber. 
He  of  the  lone  skeleton  had  held  the  spot  nearest  succour 
against  the  pack,  and  he  had  died  victor  on  his  futile 
vantage  ground. 

The  sword  is  more  of  a  document  than  a  loin  cloth 
can  ever  be.  Krag  knelt  beside  the  lone  skeleton.  It 
was  of  the  aristocracy  of  bones.  It  was  accoutred  in 
conquistador  leather;  in  doublet,  breeches,  and  boots. 
The  leather  parted  like  paper  ash  under  the  living  touch, 
and  bared  the  glistening  frame  within.  The  living  fingers 
went  to  the  belt,  to  a  pouch  there,  and  peeled  it  open. 
Yellow  as  a  hag's  tooth,  something  lay  folded  inside.  It 
was  parchment,  enduring  yet;  a  gesture,  nod,  frown,  or 
smile,  of  one  century  to  another  across  the  chasm  of 
time. 

Krag's  heavy  hands  smoothed  out  the  limp  folds  with 
the  gentleness  of  the  surgeon.  The  dead  Spaniard's 
breast  he  used  for  table,  and  spread  the  parchment  there, 
centring  the  candle's  flare  on  its  smeared  lines.  The 
antique  Castilian  lettering  was  dim,  and  clouded  by 
the  wash  and  sop  of  blood  long  since  dried.  But  the 
man  who  had  come  afterward  needed  no  written  word  to 
interpret  the  gesture  —  whether  "Yes"  or  "No"  —  of 
that  other  century.  Krag  knew  already  that  the  lode 
ran  from  north-west  to  south-east,  so  that  it  was  easy  to 


126  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

trace  understandingly  the  old  workings  on  the  Span- 
iard's chart.  Krag  traced  them  from  the  shaft,  along  the 
gutted  vein,  to  the  breast  of  the  drift  in  the  fateful  stope, 
where  the  last  pick  had  been  driven  in  the  treasure- 
freighted  lode. 

This  much  Krag  expected  to  find.  Every  mine 
boss  would  know  as  much  of  his  mine.  But  it  was  little; 
it  was  nothing.  The  intruder  on  that  ancient  tragedy 
hoped  for  more;  expected  it  not,  yet  hoped.  He  bent 
avidly  over  the  parchment.  The  hard  gray  eyes  awoke 
like  sleepy  hounds  to  the  scent.  They  darted  to  and  fro, 
over  and  over  again,  across  a  certain  parchment  country 
that  was  blank.  They  sought  to  project  the  traced  line 
from  where,  as  a  worked-out  vein,  it  stopped  at  the  face 
of  the  drift.  He  brought  his  head  closer,  and  blew  softly, 
to  blow  away  what  might  be  dust.  But  the  specks,  if 
such  they  were,  held  fast.  Then  he  noted  that  they  were 
orderly  specks,  tracking  single  file  over  the  parchment. 
They  were  a  dotted  line,  faint,  and  doubtful,  too,  like 
the  dead  treasure  seeker  who  had  set  them  there.  They 
began  near  the  stope,  and  did,  theoretically,  project  the 
virgin  lode.  But,  what  was  astounding,  and  rasped  the 
geologist's  soul,  the  tracks  bent  in  their  course.  They 
bent  from  south-east  to  southward.  Almost  to  a  right 
angle  they  broke.  Now  what  Spaniard  that  dead 
Spaniard  must  have  been,  to  feel  along  a  thread  of  silver 
from  under  one  mountain  into  another  mountain! 
To  see,  with  his  Spaniard's  greed,  that  the  thread 
curved  within  the  solid  mountain!  Moreover,  a 
bending  vein  of  ore  is  a  monstrosity  in  all  geology. 
The  dead  Spaniard  had  been  a  very  crazy  live 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  127 

Spaniard.  So  any  other  man  than  Krag  must  have 
thought. 

But  Krag  looked  farther.  A  little  beyond  its  bend 
southward  the  dotted  line  stopped.  It  stopped  short,  or 
was  brought  to  a  stop,  by  a  bold,  harsh  line  like  a  stonewall 
in  its  path.  That  bold,  harsh  line  pictured  no  shade  of 
doubt.  Did  the  fanciful  Spaniard,  then,  imagine  that  the 
vein  had  heaved  at  that  point?  Was  he  dreaming  of  a  vol- 
canic shiver  that  had  ruptured  the  vein  there?  If  so, 
he  was  dreaming  of  many  things  under  the  earth.  And 
yet,  the  stone  wall  was  the  boldest  line  on  the  chart.  It 
was  assertive,  stubborn,  and  would  not  be  denied. 

There  were  some  letters  —  three  letters,  a  word  — 
written  along  the  bold  line.  They  were  almost  illegible, 
but  Krag  made  them  out:  "A  UA. "  There  was  a 
blur  between  the  first  two.  That  halted  Krag  a  second 
only.  "Agua,"  he  exclaimed.  "Water!" 

Water  was  as  important  as  silver,  if  one  would  have 
silver  of  those  barren  mountains.  The  Spaniard  was 
certain  to  indicate  water.  But  again,  was  he  imagining 
a  stream  within  the  earth? 

In  a  flash  of  intuition  Krag  understood.  "Agua"  on 
the  chart  stood  for  the  little  stream  they  had  followed  up 
the  gorge!  The  bold  line  was  the  gorge  itself.  And  the 
vein  stopped  with  the  gorge.  It  outcropped  somewhere 
on  the  gorge's  precipitous  walls.  The  Spaniard  had 
discovered  this  outcropping,  by  accident,  doubtless,  per- 
haps from  the  summit  of  the  opposite  wall.  He  had 
identified  it  as  the  same  vein.  But,  to  outcrop  there,  the 
vein  must  have  changed  its  course.  Hence  the  doubtful 
bending  dotted  line  on  his  chart. 


128  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Thereupon  Krag  thought  for  a  long  time  on  it.  An 
expert  examining  the  property  would  believe  that  the 
vein  kept  its  course,  which  was  south-eastward,  and  where 
no  gorges  intervened  to  cut  it  short.  On  that  assumption, 
supported  by  all  the  rules  of  geology,  the  expert  would 
recommend  development.  He  might  advise  a  railroad  to 
the  smelter.  Only  later,  when  the  vein  had  been  followed, 
would  its  queer  twist  and  quick  end  be  known.  There 
was  a  chance  here  to  lose  a  great  deal  of  money. 

Krag  thought  of  Bunny.  Bunny  was  quite  sure  that 
this  was  the  Veto,  Negra.  But  Bunny  forgot  the  grateful 
Yaqui,  the  Mexican  widow,  and  the  famous  chunk  of 
silver  ore  that  Humboldt  saw. 

That  episode  had  happened  a  hundred  years  ago.  But 
this  mine  was  buried  three  hundred  years  ago,  and  had 
stayed  buried  too  deep  for  any  Yaqui,  no  matter  how 
grateful  a  Yaqui. 

"Still  " — Krag  took  up  the  candle,  and  got  to  his 
feet  —  "anything  not  to  disappoint  Bunny.  The  Veto, 
Negra  it  is.  Furthermore,  as  thoughtful  Bunny  reminds 
me,  it  is  Maisie's  mine.  We  will  defer  to  thoughtful 
Bunny. " 

He  held  the  parchment  to  the  candle  flame,  and  the 
ashy  flakes  wavered  down  upon  the  aristocrat  of  the 
charnel  house.  Then,  back  in  the  stope,  he  dug  speci- 
mens from  the  richest  seam  in  the  breast  of  the  lode, 
filled  a  canvas  ore  sack  with  them,  tied  the  sack  and  his 
pick  to  the  rope,  and  signaled  to  them  above  to  draw  up 
the  rope. 

When  they  lowered  the  rope  to  him  again,  he  climbed 
as  buoyantly  as  though  his  bonanza  were  genuine. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

Worthy  Wolf 

DO  YOU  think  there's  any  danger  —  what  would 
be  danger  —  to  him?"  asked  Maisie.  Peering 
down,  she  saw  his  candle  moving  about,  and 
vanish,  as  though  it  were  pinched  out.  "  Is  there,  Bunny? 
Is  there?  He's  in  that  tunnel  now,  I  think.  There's 
only  the  darkness. " 

Chubbuck  gazed  on  her  where  she  knelt,  braced  by  her 
stiffened  arms  at  the  very  edge.  The  slender  neck  was 
as  pretty  in  its  tan,  perhaps,  as  it  had  been  in  soft  ala- 
baster. Its  curve,  from  her  shoulder  to  the  first  maddening 
little  curls,  was  anxiety's  line.  Her  one  thought  was  for 
the  man  below,  and  Bunny  knew  it.  He  laid  his  forearm 
across  his  brow  as  if  he  were  perspiring. 

"There  can't  be,  Maisie,"  he  said.  "I  was  talking  to 
Placido.  Jim  can't  go  more  than  a  few  steps  into  the 
tunnel  before  the  cave-in  stops  him.  And  there's  no 
shafts  to  fall  into. " 

"But  I  wish  he  hadn't  gone,  Bunny.  And  I  wish  / 
might  do  something  to  frighten  him,  and, "  she  whispered, 
to  herself,  "make  him  wonder,  as  he  makes  me.  Jim! 
Jim,  dear!"  So  she  thought  of  him,  and  her  heart, 
bolder  than  her  lips,  kept  the  words. 

"Maisie." 

129 


130  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

She  looked  over  her  shoulder.  Bunny's  voice  was 
strange.  He  was  staring  fixedly  down  the  ravine. 
His  old  briar  pipe,  poised  half-way  from  his  mouth, 
trembled  in  his  hand.  His  lips  were  parted.  Maisie 
could  not  see  outside  the  gully,  being  on  her  knees,  so 
that  she  did  not  see  Placido  and  the  peons  intent  on  the 
same  direction,  silently  watching,  with  their  rifles 
ready. 

"Maisie,  is  he  there?  Look  again.  Do  you  see  his 
candle?" 

"No,  Bunny.     Not  yet.     Why ? " 

"  Maybe  —  maybe  you'd  better  call  him.  —  Yes, 
loud!  —  No,  no,  you  needn't  .  .  .  God,  they're 
only  soldiers!" 

Fourteen  drooping  soldiers  and  a  sub-lieutenant  were 
toiling  up  the  ravine.  Down  in  the  gorge  they  had  seen 
burros  browsing  around  the  half  unpacked  camp.  Maisie's 
tube  of  tooth  paste  had  fallen  out  of  her  saddle  bags, 
and  by  that  they  knew  that  the  camp  belonged  to 
Americans.  The  battered  soldiers,  what  was  left  of  them, 
were  coming  out  of  the  fastnesses  of  the  sierra.  The 
trickling  stream  in  the  gorge  was  their  last  chance  this 
side  the  smelter  to  fill  their  canteens. 

The  soldiers  had  a  prisoner.  They  pulled  on  the  chains 
from  his  wrists,  and  when  the  prisoner  swayed  they  wear- 
ily pushed  him  headlong,  so  that  the  momentum  of  his 
lurch  gained  them  a  few  steps.  If  he  fell  they  roused 
him  by  kicks,  or  the  sub-lieutenant  with  his  sword 
point.  If  that  failed,  for  the  captive  was  weak,  they 
took  him  by  arms  and  ankles,  and  dragged  him.  Thus 
they  were  exerting  themselves  greatly  for  a  trophy. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  131 

Captives  in  that  warfare  were  permissibly  shot  instariter. 
But  if  one  stumps  one's  toes  on  a  clod  of  gold,  one  bur- 
dens himself  with  the  clod.  Likewise  with  a  Yaqui.  The 
sub-lieutenant  was  a  gem  of  a  sportsman.  They  might 
not  believe  him  at  the  barracks.  They  could  always 
shoot  the  Yaqui  afterward. 

They  had  caught  their  Yaqui  the  day  before, 
when  they  were  returning  from  the  chase  after  Yaquis. 
It  was  near  the  place  of  their  first  skirmish,  out- 
going. They  had  tracked  him  by  blood.  Their 
scout,  of  wary  eyesight,  had  picked  up  a  mesquite 
pod.  It  lay  a  dozen  feet  off  the  trail,  but  against  the 
brown  he  had  seen  a  smear  of  rust,  and  knew  it  for  a 
dried  drop  of  blood.  The  others  crouched  involuntarily, 
fingering  their  Mausers.  The  scout  did  not  at  once 
follow  the  sign,  but  came  back  to  the  trail.  There  was  a 
little  patch  of  dust  in  the  trail  at  this  point.  He  stooped 
and  gently  rubbed  his  palm  into  the  dust.  He  rose  and 
showed  his  hand  to  the  lieutenant.  Dust  was  sticking 
to  it,  and  the  dust  was  reddish.  A  pool  of  blood  had  been 
covered  over  there.  They  took  hope.  That  the  stained 
mesquite  pod  had  not  been  covered  proved  that  the 
wounded  Yaqui  was  ebbing  fast.  But  they  kept  their 
Mausers  cocked. 

They  found  him  in  a  clump  of  ocotillo  where  he  had 
crawled,  thrusting  into  the  thorns  with  his  naked  shoul- 
der. His  rifle  was  not  on  him.  They  had  not  hoped  to 
find  that.  His  body  was  lifting  as  by  knotted  ropes, 
and  falling  when  the  ropes  slacked.  The  one  sound 
of  his  mouth  was  the  bubbling  of  froth.  His  wound, 
furrowed  raggedly  and  deep  along  the  thigh,  was  alive 


132  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

and  horrible.  They  fixed  chains  on  him  before  they  put 
mescal  to  his  lips. 

Maisie  stood  in  the  gully.  She  made  out  the  fourteen 
soldiers  and  the  sub-lieutenant,  and  then  the  prisoner, 
staggering,  falling,  and  being  beaten.  Her  lip  quivered. 

"That  —  that's  something  they  must  not  do!  Oh, 
callJim!  —  Jim!" 

"Wait,  Maisie,  wait!  I-  -"  Bunny  left  her.  He 
went  running  on  his  gangling  legs  down  the  ravine.  Soon 
she  saw  him  protesting  to  the  sub-lieutenant,  helping 
his  Spanish  with  indignant  gesture.  The  little  sub- 
lieutenant wanted  to  be  accommodating,  but  he  was 
puzzled.  Was  it  that  the  senor  desired  that  he  cease 
employing  his  officer's  sabre  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty 
to  his  patria,  no?  The  flat  of  his  officer's  sabre  had  just 
left  the  Yaqui's  naked  back.  Chubbuck  pointed  help- 
lessly at  Maisie.  The  senorita  —  But  the  lieutenant 
comprehended.  Of  course,  of  course,  the  senorita  did 
not  wish  to  see.  He  would  desist.  His  men  would  desist. 
Because  of  the  senorita  they  would  carry  their  Indian,  their 
desperate  young  bronco,  in  their  arms.  So  it  should  be. 

"But  why  come  at  all?"  Chubbuck  demanded.  He 
would  save  Maisie  the  horror  of  the  Yaqui.  "  WTiy " 

"We  thought,"  said  the  officer,  "that  you  might  have 
mescal,  or  wheesky.  We  have  used  all  our  own  on  this 
mad  dog  which  I  have  captured.  And  there  remains 
the  desert.  We ' 

"Bunny,"  said  Maisie,  coming  up  with  him,  "tell 
them  that  Jim  is  a  surgeon.  This  poor,  wild,  wounded 
creature " 

"Of  course,"  said  Bunny.     "I  never  thought." 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  133 

The  lieutenant  was  courteously  pleased.  A  surgeon 
was  better  than  wheesky.  A  surgeon  would  make  his 
trophy  whole.  The  lieutenant  saw  enhancement  of 
renown  at  the  barracks.  To  capture  a  reasonably  sound 
Yaqui  was  somewhat. 

"Why  not,"  said  Maisie,  emboldened  by  compassion, 
"have  him  brought  to  our  gully,  and  let  one  of  the  men 
go  after  Jim's  valise  —  it's  back  at  camp,  in  the  green 
striped  blanket  —  and  have  it  all  ready?  Quick  now, 
hurry!" 

They  were  hardly  back  in  the  gully  with  the  wounded 
Yaqui,  when  the  rope  dangling  in  the  hole  began  to  jerk 
and  rap  against  the  cross  beam  to  which  it  was  tied. 

"Prospecting,  no?"  said  the  lieutenant  genially. 
"Ai,  the  great  hole!"  he  exclaimed,  and  looked  quickly 
at  the  Yaqui.  But  the  Indian's  metal-bright,  fevered 
eyes  betrayed  nothing.  "Yes,  yes,"  said  the  lieutenant, 
"it  was  from  here  that  they  first  shot  at  us,  when  we 
numbered  as  yet  all  of  fifty-seven.  And  why?  They 
were  keeping  a  watch  on  this  hole.  Ai,  senor,"  —  he 
opened  his  arms  eloquently  at  Chubbuck  —  "you  are 
not  the  strategist.  You  do  not  therefore  perceive.  But 
I,  yes.  The  Yaquis  want  no  rich  mines  to  be  found  in 
this  sierra.  Why?  Pobre,  you  are  not  the  strategist. 
Because,  mines  will  bring  a  railroad  across  the  desert, 
and  a  railroad  will  bring  armies.  Ai,  yes,  senor  mio, 
and  we  foot-blistered  soldiers  of  the  patria  do  hope  that 
you  now  have  found  a  very  rich  mine.  So  it  should  be. " 

Chubbuck  had  drawn  up  Krag's  sack  of  specimens 
from  the  hole  and  was  dumping  them  on  the  ground. 
"Rich?  "he  said.  "Heft  that,  then.  Or  that.  Or  that." 


134  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

He  piled  black  sulphides  on  the  Mexican's  palm.  They 
weighed  almost  what  solid  silver  would  have  weighed. 
"Rich?"  sniffed  Bunny.  The  virus,  which  is  the  same 
whether  silvered  or  gilded,  coursed  through  his  veins. 
The  man  below  had  sent  up  before  him,  not  the  human 
document,  but  this  other  of  geology  —  rocks  —  a  subtle 
lie  in  her  eternal  truth. 

It  was  Maisie  who  thought  to  lower  the  rope  again. 

No  one  had  been  noticing  the  Yaqui,  but  it  was  the 
Yaqui,  lying  half  propped  up  on  blankets  spread  for  him 
by  Maisie,  that  Krag  noticed  first  of  all,  when  his  large 
head  and  dull  gray  eyes  rose  out  of  the  hole.  The  Indian 
was  young,  but  his  apathy  was  supreme,  despite  the  wast- 
ing of  his  corded  frame,  the  thirst  on  his  swollen  tongue, 
the  pain  of  the  festered  wound,  despite  even  his  shackles. 
Only  the  black  opals  that  were  his  eyes  seemed  alert,  yet 
they  were  still,  like  a  desert  viper's  when  the  viper  lies 
coiled.  They  were  on  Chubbuck  as  Chubbuck  fondled 
the  treasure-laden  rocks. 

And  so  the  eyes  encountered  Krag's,  as  a  great  yel- 
lowed hand,  streaked  with  candle  grease,  reached  out 
of  the  black  hole  and  closed  over  the  rope,  and  cords  in 
the  wrist  strained  like  cables,  and  this  other  man's 
eyes  of  steel  rose  into  the  light,  blinking  as  though 
behind  a  crack  in  a  plank,  yet  holding  the  Indian's  own. 
It  was  as  when  the  viper  sees  a  boulder  loosen  and  begin 
to  roll,  at  first  very  slowly,  down  the  mountain  side 
toward  him.  The  Yaqui  in  no  way  comprehended 
the  uneasiness  that  grew  on  him. 

Maisie  trembled  at  the  edge  until  Krag  stood  safely 
beside  her. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  135 

"Brought  me  a  patient,  I  see,"  said  Krag,  turning  to 
the  sub-lieutenant. 

"If  the  senor,"  begged  the  officer,  "will  but  give  him 
legs  enough  for  the  desert." 

"Or  to  run  away, "  added  Krag.  He  noted  the  Yaqui's 
lean  figure,  the  clean,  noble  lines  of  a  runner. 

"But  I  captured  him,  senor,"  protested  the  little 
officer. 

"Very  well,"  said  Krag,  "yet  I  mention  again  that  he 
will  run  away. " 

"Jim,"  said  Maisie,  "he's  suffering.  Here's  your 
telescope  case,  everything. " 

"But  your  claim,  Jim?"  Bun  Chubbuck  interposed. 
"Aren't  you  going  to  denounce  it?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Krag.  "Can't  you  and  Placido 
stake  her  off?  " 

"Sure, "  said  Bunny.  "But  there  are  no  surface  signs. 
How'll  we  run  the  lines?" 

Krag  was  laying  out  glittering  instruments  on  a  cloth 
of  black  velvet.  "The  vein,"  he  said,  without  looking 
up,  "runs  south-east  from  the  stope." 

"That's  easy.     How  far  shall  we  follow  her?  " 

"Suit  yourself,  old  Supernal.  Take  in  a  hundred 
pertenencias,  if  you  like. "  He  squinted  along  the  edge 
of  a  long,  thin  knife.  He  was  reflecting  on  law,  not  on 
cutlery.  Mexico  had  no  law  of  the  apex.  A  miner  could 
take  only  what  lay  between  his  lines.  The  vein,  twisting, 
would  quickly  pass  under  Bunny's  south  side-line.  Knife 
in  hand,  Krag  turned  to  the  Yaqui.  "Now,  my  vale 
coyote,"  he  said  affably. 

The  Yaqui's  eyes  darted  to  the  knife.     It  was  their 


ISC  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

refuge  from  this  white  man's  eyes.  He  had  feared  that 
he  might  flinch,  but,  looking  on  the  material  steel,  he 
would  not  flinch. 

Krag  did  not  use  the  knife.  He  put  it  down,  first 
for  a  hypodermic  syringe,  and  then  to  let  Maisie 
pour  an  antiseptic  wash  on  cotton  swabs.  His 
fingers  worked  along  the  wound's  jagged  furrow,  now 
touching  lightly,  now  pressing.  Between  him  and  his 
patient  there  grew  a  sort  of  contest,  a  silent,  instinctive 
duel  of  two  naked  natures.  The  young  warrior  lay, 
opposing  his  Indian  will.  Krag  was  half  smiling,  in 
that  strange  affection  he  had  for  the  wild,  persisting 
things  of  the  desert.  Smiling,  he  pressed,  quick  and 
sharp.  The  Yaqui's  body  lifted,  all  but  head  and  heels, 
from  the  ground.  His  jaws  snapped  open.  It  was  an 
intake  of  breath,  a  sucking  for  mercy  of  the  universe 
outside  since  within  himself  he  did  not  suffice.  The 
soldiers  drew  back,  and  laughed,  admiringly  —  they  had 
not  been  able  to  do  that.  But  the  yelp  of  agony  was 
still-born,  though  the  Indian  knew  himself  beaten.  He 
had  recognized  the  empire  of  pain.  He  swept  his  man- 
acled fists  into  the  white  man's  face.  Krag  took  the 
blow,  smiling.  The  Yaqui  lay  still  then,  gazing  up  at 
him,  while  heavenly  surcease  of  pain  went  stealing 
through  his  body.  After  a  little  his  head  rolled  over 
on  one  lean  jaw  and  he  slept. 

"Now,  Maisie  girl,  some  gauze." 

Maisie  had  the  bandages  ready,  unrolling  them  as  they 
passed  through  her  husband's  fingers.  Krag  felt  her 
nearness  to  him  at  such  times,  and  he  was  deeply  sen- 
sitive of  it.  Especially  so,  because  these  were  the  only 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  137 

times.  Why  his  work,  and  not  the  cradle,  nor  his 
love,  nor  hers,  should  draw  her  to  him,  he  did  not  know; 
or  rather,  he  dreaded  to  know.  His  intuition  of  it  dis- 
mayed him;  more,  embittered  him.  For  here  were  these 
others,  soldiers  and  peons,  callous  and  pachyderm  lumps 
with  no  more  feeling  for  surgical  nicety  than  of  needle- 
work, yet,  like  his  sweet  wife,  held  by  him  at  his  work  as 
by  the  lodestar.  His  thick  brows  narrowed.  He  sensed 
the  cause,  not  confessing  it.  They,  peons,  soldiers,  his 
wife,  humanity,  had  an  instinctive  antipathy  for  the  cold 
blooded  creatures,  for  creatures  without  the  grace  to 
know  suffering.  Begot  of  such  antipathy  was  fascination, 
enthralling  warm  blood  despite  itself.  Krag  pondered. 
Was  that,  then,  the  spell  of  him  at  work,  when  his  raw 
material  was  mortal  suffering? 

Maisie  wondered,  also,  but  with  less  discernment. 
Of  ten  she  lingered  at  the  closed  door  of  the  smelter  hospital 
when  he  was  operating,  although  he  would  not  let  her 
enter.  It  was  not  the  horror  of  the  scientist's  sacrilege 
in  the  temple  of  life,  at  least  not  that  alone,  that  held  her; 
but  with  that,  this  man's,  her  husband's,  cynical  power 
over  life  and  death.  His  conquest  of  suffering  but 
deepened  his  sneer  for  poor  mortality.  At  times  Maisie 
almost  prayed  that  he  might  fail.  She  would  cure  the 
healer  himself  in  a  little  humility.  Only  a  little  humility, 
and  she  thought  that  perhaps  —  just  possibly  —  she  could 
make  out  whether  it  was  that  she  hated  him  or  that  she 
loved  him.  For  this  had  come  to  be  the  enigma  and 
anguish  of  her  life;  this  harassing  riddle  as  to  which 
emotion  she  was  the  slave.  That  she  was  a  slave  she 
knew  quite  well.  And  now,  here  in  the  Mexican  wilder- 


138  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

ness,  she  had  seen  an  Indian  likewise  falling  a  slave  under 
his  hand;  or  was  it?  —  yes  —  under  his  eye.  Her 
husband  was  the  master  animal.  Maisie  felt  strangely 
cold  as  she  unrolled  the  last  of  the  gauze. 

"There,"  said  Krag,  "he's  patched.  But  you  will 
either  have  to  leave  him,  shoot  him,  or  carry  him. " 

The  sub-lieutenant  thought  of  the  desert,  yet  decided 
to  carry  him.  He  rigged  up  a  litter,  accepted  Krag's 
invitation  to  camp  fare,  and  would  not  be  denied  in  a 
wish  to  escort  the  Americans  back  to  the  smelter.  On 
the  weary  way  he  detailed  his  men  by  fours  to  bear  the 
trophy. 

They  reached  the  smelter  late  at  night,  and  the  soldiers 
were  exhausted  and  close  to  mutiny.  If  they  might 
rest  at  the  smelter  till  morning?  Krag  warned  them 
as  to  their  prisoner.  He  had  heard  that  a  Yaqui  could 
always  escape.  The  sub-lieutenant  laughed  easily.  A 
room  with  barred  windows,  or  without,  it  did  not  matter; 
his  men  should  sit  over  the  Indian  with  levelled  rifles. 
It  was  Chubbuck  who  suggested  the  hospital.  And  there 
the  Yaqui  was  laid  and  two  sleepy  guards  with  carbines 
sat  on  the  wooden  bench.  Krag  bade  the  sub-lieutenant 
good-night. 

The  next  morning  at  daybreak,  when  the  squad  roused 
to  take  up  the  march  to  town,  the  Yaqui  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

Legacies 

JIM."  Maisie  spoke  his  name  almost  timidly.  She 
did  not  fear  her  interruption  would  annoy  him, 
for  it  never  did,  nor  that  his  head  would  lift 
from  his  work  with  a  frown,  since  he  had  never  frowned 
at  her  yet,  or  because  of  her.  She  sometimes  wished 
that  he  might.  This  perpetual  calm  was  a  cloak,  while 
a  lightning  flash  might  reveal  her  husband  to  her  and 
bring  understanding.  Nevertheless,  she  spoke  his  name 
timidly. 

He  brushed  aside  the  papers  —  charts,  blue  prints, 
official  documents  stamped  by  the  government;  all  the 
final  papers  of  his  mining  claim  spread  out  before  him 
on  their  plank  library  table  —  and  by  his  quiet  gesture 
told  her  that  the  moment  following,  or  any  other  period 
of  his  life,  was  her  own  if  she  cared  to  ask  for  it. 

"Well?" 

Maisie  was  looking  over  his  shoulder,  rather  bewildered 
by  the  formidable  scrolls  whose  magic  was  a  license  to 
dig  and  possess  treasure.  She  took  courage.  His  word 
of  question  was  tender.  She  could  not  know  how  ter- 
ribly so  it  was. 

"Jim,  you're  going  to  be  rich  now,  aren't  you?" 

"Am  I?"    He  felt  her  nearness  to  him.     His  gnarled 

139 


140  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

being  was  as  sensitive  to  that  as  a  leaf  bud  to  the  morning. 
His  shoulder  ached  for  the  resting  of  her  hand  there, 
and  she  was  wishing  that  it  was  —  was  possible  —  to 
put  her  arm  around  his  neck.  "Why  so? "  he  asked. 

"Why!"  she  exclaimed:  "because  you  have  a  mine, 
of  course!" 

"Poorer,  you  mean.  But  since  our  last  raise,  maybe 
we  can  afford  just  one  mine." 

"Aren't  you,"  she  asked,  "going  to  let  Bunny  get 
rich  too?" 

Krag  mocked  himself  for  hoping  for  the  weight  of  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  So  his  possible  riches  interested 
her  that  the  Bunny  person  might  share  them! 

But  the  specialist  in  the  human  heart  was  quite  mis- 
taken. Maisie  took  it  for  granted  that  Jim  would  be  rich 
sometime.  To  wish  him  luck  did  not  seem  necessary.  On 
the  other  hand,  not  only  to  wish  luck,  but  to  inspire  it, 
did  seem  necessary  for  poor  Bunny,  if  that  good  friend 
to  them  both  were  ever  to  have  reward. 

"Aren't  you?"  she  repeated,  for  his  great,  squared 
head  was  on  his  chest,  and  she  thought  him  deep  in 
other  thoughts.  "You  know,  Jim,  to  make  Bunny 
rich?" 

"You  mean,  to  make  him  poorer,  the  innocent  Chub!" 

"Please,  Jim."     She  sighed  despairingly  at  his  humour. 

"But  it's  not  a  joke,  Maisie.  It's  ruin.  For  Chub 
it  is.  Still,  as  he's  secretary  of  our  mining  company, 
I've  given  him  ten  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  stock." 

"Jim  Krag!"  The  blue  eyes  opened  gloriously  on 
him,  could  he  have  seen  them.  "Jim  —  ten  thousand 
dollars  —  ruin?  " 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  141 

"Exactly,  Maisie  girl.  It's  assessable.  Old  Supernal 
gets  a  vara." 

"What's  that?" 

"A  Mexican  stock  term."  Then  he  explained. 
"You  see,  we're  a  Mexican  company.  We've  incor- 
porated the  Mexican  way.  There  are  twenty-five  varas 
of  stock.  One  vara  is  non-assessable,  which  goes  to 
Placido  as  his  prospector's  share.  But  all  the  other 
twenty-four  are  assessable.  A  vara  is  one  hundred 
shares,  and  the  par  value  of  a  share  is  one  hundred  dollars. 
Dear  Bunny  gets  ten  thousand  dollars'  worth." 

"But  Jim " 

He  shook  his  head.  She  knew  what  that  meant,  and 
waited. 

"For  every  dollar  of  stock,"  he  went  on,  "there  will 
have  to  be  another  dollar,  real  money,  to  build  a  rail- 
road, install  machinery,  and  dig.  Dollar  for  dollar, 
only  for  a  starter.  Bunny's  vara,  will  cost  him  ten 
thousand  dollars.  Now  where  is  Bunny  going  to  get  it? 
Where's  a  destitute  beggar  who  " —  he  looked  hard  at 
the  table,  his  ugly  smile  jerking  his  lips  —  "  who  handles 
the  smelter's  cash!  —  where  is  he  going  to  get  ten  thou- 
sand dollars?  List,  the  echo,  Maisie  girl.  Where?" 

"But  Jim,  if  that  is  so,  where  can  you  either?  How 
many  —  what  you  call  'em  —  have  you?" 

"All  the  rest.     Twenty-three." 

"Let's  see,  that's" — her  red  lips  fluttered  indus- 
triously—  "oh,  I  always  did  hate  mental  arithmetic!" 

"Two  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  dollars,  Maisie." 

She  gasped.     "Jim  Krag,  you  can  never,  never " 

"Hardly.     I'd  have  to  sell  some  of  my  stock." 


142  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Oh,  now  I  see!"  She  clapped  her  hands  in  delight 
at  her  deep  penetration.  "Of  course,  then  with  what 
you  sell  you  can  pay  —  that  hateful  business;  assessments 
—  on  what  you  don't  sell." 

She  pondered  a  moment  behind  puckered  brows  and 
her  former  timidity  returned.  It  was  at  once  apparent 
that  this  hesitating  manner  had  no  connection  with  Bun 
Chubbuck. 

"Jim."  The  appealing  stress  was  there  again.  "Jim, 
dear,"  and  now  her  hand,  both  hands,  fell  on  his  shoul- 
ders, "  this  stock  that  you  must  sell,  why  not  sell  it  to  — 
to  papa.  Oh  Jim,"  she  hastened  on  tempestuously, 
"if  only  you  would  let  him  help,  instead  of  strangers! 
And  it's  not  like  asking  favours,  Jim.  It's  giving  him 
a  chance  to  get  richer,  isn't  it,  and  he  would  get  richer, 
wouldn't  he,  for  helping  you?  Don't  you  see,  Jim? 
Then  why  not  let  him?  And  Jim  .  .  .  Jim " 

But  the  words  dragged  at  the  prayer  in  her  heart. 
She  could  not  say  it  all.  She  could  not  tell  him  that  she 
saw  in  his  necessity  a  way  to  his  reconciliation  with  her 
father.  Least  of  all  could  she  tell  him  of  her  more  ultimate 
hope,  that  his  bitterness  must  then  perish,  that  per- 
haps he  would  find  again  his  better  self,  left  so  far  behind 
with  his  lost  boyhood.  She  could  not  say  all  that,  but 
if  Jim  would  only  let  her  father  help,  at  least  that  would 
be  the  start.  "Jim,"  she  whispered,  "won't  you,  Jim?" 

He  had  risen  at  mention  of  her  father,  the  act  brushing 
her  hands  from  his  shoulders,  and  she  shrank  a  little 
away  from  him.  She  hoped,  when  he  should  turn  from 
the  table,  that  she  would  not  have  to  meet  his  eyes. 
He  was  lifting  the  papers  from  the  table  and  laying  them 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  143 

down  again,  one  by  one,  in  business-like  deliberation. 
He  found  one  that  he  wanted,  a  single  sheet  of  stamped 
paper,  and  kept  it  in  his  hand  as  he  turned  and  faced 
her.  She  looked  up,  and  she  could  scarcely  believe. 
The  dull,  tired  eyes  were  soft.  They  were  kind,  so  very 
kind,  as  they  were  the  night  in  the  trapper's  cabin  on 
Cleft  Rock.  The  tears  welled  blindingly  in  her  own  eyes. 

"Maisie  girl"  —  the  hard,  cool  voice  had  changed  to 
a  note  of  sorrow  — "  Maisie,  it  happens  that  you  are 
going  to  have  a  great  deal  to  think  about.  A  great  deal, 
Maisie.  And  soon.  Very  soon,  indeed,  Maisie." 

"JimI  .  .  .  Why  —  Jim,  dear!"  She  was  star- 
ing at  him. 

He  shook  his  head.  She  was  not  to  interrupt.  "And 
Maisie,  when  you  come  to  do  this  thinking,"  he  said 
very  slowly,  "and  you  see  your  happiness,  then,  Maisie 
girl"  —  he  paused;  his  look,  his  manner,  were  the  sol- 
emnity of  command  —  "then  clutch  it!  Grip  it,  hard 
and  fast.  Snatch  it  as  your  due,  girl :  as  your  due  from 
Heaven,  or  whatever:  as  the  due  you  owe  your  life's 
years  yet  to  be  spent  on  earth  —  Now,  Maisie  girl,  do 
you  think  you  can  remember,  when  this  thinking  time 
conies?" 

"Jim,  I  don't  understand!    What " 

"Now  as  to  your  father,"  he  interrupted  abruptly. 
She  started.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  heard  him 
speak  of  her  father  deliberately.  He  was,  moreover, 
quite  passionless.  But  she  took  no  hope  from  that. 
Something  —  a  presentiment,  perhaps  —  was  making 
her  tremble.  She  could  better  endure  the  old  silence. 
The  very  air  seemed  freighted  with  consequence  to- 


144  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

night.  "Your  father,"  he  said,  —  "and  here's  at  least 
one  item  to  be  on  my  credit  side  —  I  give  you  your 
father's  respect.  Why?"  The  shade  of  a  sneer  crossed 
his  lips.  "Because  I  —  you  —  we  are  synonymous  with 
twenty-three  varas  —  two  hundred  and  thirty  thousand 
dollars.  You  will  be  very  welcome,  little  girl  and  little 
mother,  on  your  next  visit  home.  You  won't  be  treated 
there  again  as  you  have  been,  as  my  —  my  mother  was. 
He  will  toady  to  you  now  —  yes,  twenty-three  raras 
worth!" 

She  listened,  amazed.  How  could  he  know  of  her 
treatment  in  her  father's  house,  during  her  visit  there? 
She  had  never  admitted  even  to  herself  that  there  was 
a  difference  in  her  father's  manner  toward  her.  Yet 
she  had  felt  it  at  the  time,  and  now  she  knew  it  for  the 
truth  —  her  father's  contempt  for  her  as  a  poor  man's 
wife.  She  recalled  incidents,  when  adroitly  her  father 
had  cut  under  her  naive  pride  in  merely  being  alive, 
and  took  the  spirit  out  of  her,  and  made  her  feel  small, 
dependent,  inferior.  He  had  patronized  her  with  ques- 
tions about  her  "home"  over  the  mess  house,  about 
Jim's  salary  and  prospects.  His  brows  had  lifted, 
noting  her  simple  dresses  and  simplest  of  hats.  His 
very  greeting,  curious,  cold,  suspicious,  had  been  a  su- 
percilious expectancy  of  a  claim  on  his  bounty.  There 
had  been  many  things  to  start  the  tears.  Every  corner 
in  the  wealth-reeking  Queen  Anne  house  was  a  brazen 
contrast  to  exact  humility.  But  Maisie  had  owned  to 
the  truth  in  none  of  these  incidents,  and  all  together 
they  had  not  made  her  one  in  sympathy  with  her  husband, 
so  that  her  husband's  chief  hope  in  sending  her  there  had 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  145 

withered  miserably.  And  now  he  was  making  her  see 
what  his  mind's  eye  had  seen  —  her  father,  the  man 
Hacklette.  But  in  his  gentleness  for  her  he  would  not 
force  her  to  spoken  assent. 

"There,"  he  said,  "  none  of  that  rot  will  happen  again. 
Next  trip,  what  you  don't  like,  buy  and  burn  up.  You'll 
have  your  mine." 

"My  mine,  Jim?" 

"Yes,  the  Veto.  Negra.  You  found  it.  The  Bunny 
person  said  you  ought  to  have  it."  He  opened  the 
paper  in  his  hand.  "Here  it  is,"  and  he  handed  her 
the  paper. 

She  looked  at  it,  and  made  nothing  of  it,  except  that 
it  was  stiff  and  crinkly,  with  formal  penmanship,  and 
made  her  think  of  her  high-school  diploma. 

"It's  a  power  of  attorney,"  Krag  explained.  "That 
will  protect  you  better  than  actual  ownership.  And 
there,"  he  pointed  to  a  block  of  lithographs  on  the  table, 
"  are  my  shares,  your  shares,  twenty -three  varas  of  the 
Veto.  Negra;  par  value,  two  hundred  and  thirty  thousand 
dollars,  gold.  You  can  sell  them,  or  keep  them.  The 
power  of  attorney  lets  you  do  all  that  in  my  name,  but," 
he  said,  "there's  one  restriction.  Not  a  share  must  be 
sold  for  less  than  par,  and  for  cash  down," 

"Par?"  she  questioned. 

He  explained  "par." 

She  listened,  wondering  if  she  were  dizzy.  "Oh,  you 
keep  it,  Jim,"  she  cried.  "I  don't  want  any  mine.  Please, 
Jim.  There's  so  —  so  much  thinking,  and  I  don't  even 
know  what  the  words  mean." 

He  made  no  answer.     She  started  to  protest  again. 


146  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Still  he  waited.  She  was  not  saying  the  right  thin^. 
She  stopped  protesting,  dubious.  He  waited  for  her. 
Slowly  her  brow  cleared.  There  was  a  dimple,  another, 
like  the  stars  coming  out,  but  the  stars  were  not  com- 
parable to  the  growing  gladness  in  her  eyes.  .  .  . 
Of  course !  Jim  did  not  want  to  go  himself  to  her  father 
for  help.  But,  to  please  her,  he  was  willing  to  accept 
such  help.  She  had  won!  She  had  won!  He  would  let 
her  go.  That  was  why  he  gave  her  the  mine. 

"May  I,"  she  asked,  to  be  real  sure,  "  may  I  sell  some 
varas  to  papa?" 

"If  you  don't,"  said  Krag,  "he'll  take  them  away 
from  you." 

Her  face  clouded  plaintively.  "Then  you  want  me  to 
leave  you  again,  to  go  on  another  visit  home?" 

"Time  enough  to  decide  that,  Maisie  girl,  when  you 
come  to  do  the  thinking  I  mentioned." 

She  let  that  mystery  pass.  "And  you  don't  really 
mind  if  —  if  papa  helps!  .  .  .  Oh,  Jim!" 

The  impulse  was  overpowering.  She  flung  herself  into 
his  arms.  And  quailed,  when  she  found  herself  there. 

He  knew  of  old  that  flinching  in  his  clasp  —  a  clasp 
passive,  that  had  not  tightened  —  and  it  decided  him 
beyond  recall.  A  first  joy  died  on  his  face,  leaving  the 
corpse  of  joy,  and  the  man's  loneliness.  He  looked 
down  at  the  head  nestled  on  his  breast,  yet  lifting,  draw- 
ing away.  His  palms,  laid  on  her  shoulder,  on  her  waist, 
tingled.  It  was  an  ache,  a  hunger  reaching  to  the  mus- 
cles of  his  arms,  travelling  to  his  heart;  it  was  the 
pain-sense  of  a  void.  Her  body  throbbed  against 
him.  It  was  warm.  A  flush  passed  in  waves  over  her 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  147 

neck.  Her  hair  brushed  his  face.  The  subtle  fragrance 
of  it  was  in  his  nostrils.  There  was  a  demand  of  the 
sensuous  in  him  for  this  one  and  dearest  woman;  the 
sensuous  of  a  thick-set,  rugged,  robust  animalism,  gal- 
vanized by  fiery  tenderness.  Though  of  the  body,  it 
was  inexplicably  one  with  the  soul,  too.  He  knew  it  for 
no  other  woman,  for  none  that  he  could  imagine  or  dreaiii 
of.  It  was  the  sensuousness  of  the  monogamist,  whic'i 
cleansed  passion  of  fleshly  taint.  But  he  was  denied. 
Her  impulse,  he  remembered,  was  because  of  her  father; 
an  impulse  of  gratitude.  He  accepted  that  for  the 
truth,  and  went  on  to  do  that  which  he  had  planned 
to  do. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't  really  mind;  —  at  par." 

There  was  a  rumbling  knock  on  their  outer  door,  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"That  will  be  the  Bunny  person,"  said  Krag. 

Maisie's  ears  were  quick  for  another  note.  "The 
clumsy  thing,"  she  said,  much  provoked,  "now  he's 
wakened  the  baby!" 

She  hurried  into  the  next  room,  and  Krag  opened  the 
door  to  Bun  Chubbuck. 

"Got  your  vacation  at  last,  eh,  Chub?  When  you 
going?" 

"Next  month."     He  was  glowing  at  the  prospect. 

"Don't  be  coy  when  you  get  home.  The  News  and 
Javelin  might  like  to  interview  you  about  the  Veto, 
Negra,  you  know." 

"Sure  they  will.  It's  a  big  story,  Jim;  finding  an  oKi 
hidden  treasure  house  that  way,  and  the  skeletons,  aru 
the  centuries  that  have  passed,  and " 


148  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"People's  tongues  will  be  hanging  out  to  lap  up  your 
stock,  Chub.  Fill  your  trunk  with  specimens." 

"But  I  won't  sell,"  protested  Chub.  "I'm  going  to 
keep  my  stock,  all  I  can.  I  want  to  be  rich,  Jim.  I 
s'pose  the  kids  at  home  have  been  growing  all  this  time, 
and  if  they  could  go  on  to  college,  maybe  —  Hello, 
there's  Honey  Bunch.  Looks  like  somebody's  gone  and 
woke  her  up." 

"Somebody  certainly  did,"  said  Maisie,  bringing  in 
the  little  lady.  "Bunny,  why  can't  you  knock  in  more 
of  a  whisper?" 

"Oh,  well,  Chub,"  said  Krag,  "don't  grieve.  It's  life, 
getting  woke  up.  Death,  when  we  don't." 

"Now  I  think  that's  gloomy,  by  jinks!"  said  Bunny. 

"Not  at  all."  Krag  smiled  on  him.  "Snatching 
at  happiness"  -  the  smile  ended  in  a  click  of  teeth — 
"now,  that's  being  awake.  Was  just  trying  to  wake  up 
Maisie  there." 

Chubbuck  gazed  helplessly  from  one  to  the  other. 
Maisie  was  as  bewildered  as  himself. 

"Told  her,"  Krag  went  on  ruthlessly,  "  when  she  sees 
her  happiness,  to  snatch  it,  pin  it  down.  Only  way. 
Butterflies  will  fly;  their  nature.  I  —  I  say,  Mr.  Chub- 
buck,"  he  turned  on  the  amazed  Bunny,  "  that  might 
apply  to  you,  you  know.  Why  not?  General  proposi- 
tion, you  know.  Remember,  anyhow.  When  you  see 
it,  grab  quick,  especially  —  especially  if  it  means  as  well 
the  happiness  of  others,  or  of  one  other.  For  I  suppose," 
he  added,  robbing  the  last  of  hidden  significance,  for 
Chubbuck  had  reddened,  not  knowing  why,  before  the 
rigid  glare  of  the  eyes  under  the  thick  brows,  "  that 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  140 

happiness  is  a  bargain  —  out  of  the  supernal  box,  say  — 
and  it  takes  two,  at  least  two,  to  make  happiness.  And 
when  two  can  make  it,  then  it  is  a  real  bargain,  Chub,  and 
cheap  at  any  price,  whether  paid  here,  in  Heaven,  hell,  or 
the  grave.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  Maisie  girl,  I've  got  a 
call  this  evening.  I  may  be  late  getting  back,  so  don't 
waitforme."  He  stopped,  paused;  seemed  to  be  measur- 
ing the  seconds  of  his  pause.  "So  don't  wait  for  me," 
he  repeated. 

He  moved  about  the  little  room,  gathering  up  his  hat, 
his  medicine  case,  his  rawhide  quirt,  his  cartridge  belt,  and 
revolver.  In  the  inner  room,  on  his  dresser,  there  was 
a  small  hand  mirror.  He  slipped  it  in  his  coat  pocket. 
His  shaving  mirror  hung  on  the  window  casing.  That 
also  he  slipped  in  his  pocket.  As  he  moved  about,  his 
walk  stiffened.  His  heavy,  gaunt  frame  seemed  to 
be  hardening,  as  a  man  who  prepares  to  strain  against 
a  great  weight.  His  upper  jaw  was  set  in  the  lower. 
His  being  was  locked  fast  in  corded  ropes.  But  when  he 
came  to  his  wife,  his  manner  was  casual.  He  made  it  so. 

"Well,  Honey  Bunch,  night-night."  He  held  out  his 
hands  for  the  baby. 

But  she,  looking  at  him  unafraid  for  the  space  of  a 
second,  suddenly  twisted  in  her  mother's  arms,  and  flung 
out  her  own  dimpled  ones  to  Bunny.  Splotches  of  pur- 
ple mottled  the  father's  cheek  and  brow.  He  caught 
her  to  him,  buried  his  mouth  against  her  neck,  and  let 
the  savage  pressure  of  his  lips  rest  there  until  she  had 
screamed  quite  her  loudest.  Then  he  handed  her  back 
to  .  .  .he  changed  his  mind.  He  handed  her  to 
Chubbuck. 


150 

Chubbuck,  very  red  of  face,  turned  with  the  baby, 
and  walked  out  in  the  hall. 

"Now  you,  Maisie,"  said  Krag. 

But  Maisie  was  petulant  about  the  treatment  of 
Honey  Bunch.  She  puckered  her  lips  indifferently  to 
his  lips.  "You,  too!"  he  muttered,  and  took  her.  He 
held  her  long,  his  face  buried  against  her  neck.  He  did 
not  look  at  her  again  when  he  let  her  go. 

"All  right,  Chub,"  he  said,  joining  Chubbuck  in  the 
hall  outside,  who  returned  to  the  doorway  and  gave  the 
baby  to  Maisie.  He  then  followed  Krag  with  some 
resolution,  with  intent  strong  on  him. 

"Look  here,  Jim,"  he  demanded,  once  they  were  down 
the  stairs  of  the  mess  house  and  outside,  "  what  is  it? 
What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  —  he  heard  the  click 
of  teeth  that  ended  a  smile.  "Eh,  what " 

"Go  on,  Bunny.     What's  what?" 

Bunny  sighed.  He  fell  in  with  Krag's  steps  across 
the  compound  toward  the  gate.  He  laid  a  hand  on 
Krag's  shoulder,  dimly  surprised  that  it  took  courage 
to  do  that. 

"You  were  driving  at  something,  Jim,"  he  said,  "with 
that  devil's  own  talk  about  happiness.  You  drive  at 
something  with  every  breath,  for  that  matter.  You 
don't  want  to  tell  me  what  it  is?  All  right.  I'll  wait 
till  some  act  of  yours  jolts  me  bolt  upright  and  I  see 
your  meaning  as  clear  and  cruel  and  cynical  as  sunlight 
on  midnight  assassination.  But  you  brought  me  into 
it,  up  there  just  now,  and  intruding  or  not,  I'm  in  it 
long  enough  to  say  this " 

"Old  Supernal,"  grunted  the  man  at  his  side. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  1.- 

"  I  am  thinking  of  Maisie  back  there,  Jim 

"Eh,  are  you  though?" 

"If  you  struck  her,  Jim,  she  would  look  like  she  di<! 
to-night.  Like  she  looks  so  often." 

"Is  there  much  more  of  this  damned  oration?" 
"And  I  am  thinking  of  you,  too,  Jim,  and  — 
"For  the  Lord's  sake,  then,  cut  out  the  stage  fright." 
"And  thinking  of  you  both,  I  want  to  say  this,  Jim. 
I  find  that  consideration  of  the  feelings  of  others  is  the 
best  philosophy  of  personal  happiness." 
"You  poor  old  doddering  sissy!" 
"I  —  I  want  you  to  try  it,  old  — old  chap." 
"Oh,  well,  Chub,"   said  Krag  in  contemptuous   tol- 
erance,   "speaking     only     humanly  —  not     supernally, 
mind  —  we  may  go  on  giving,  and  giving,  and  giving? 
That's  your  idea?     But  what  if  we  humans  are  dia- 
bolical enough  to  hunger  for  some  return?     And  not 
getting  it,  the  devil  in  us  acknowledges  a  hunger  of  the 
soul,  and  he  holds  to  the  province  and  dignity  of  Lucifer 
to  strike,  to  hurt,  as  he  is  hurt?     Eh,  Bunny?  —  Oh, 
well,  as  I  say,  be  as  Christ-like  as  you  like.     That's 
all  right.     Very  pretty,  too." 

Chubbuck  drew  away.  "God,"  he  cried,  "what  is 
your  heart?  Stone?" 

"Why  no,"  said  Krag  gravely,  "it's  living  tissue. 
It's  an  ulcer." 

"A  bad  heart,"  said  Bunny,  "when — when  you 
admit  it." 

"Maybe  so,  Chub.  And  you'll  notice  I'm  not  trying 
to  disabuse  your  mind  about  my  being  a  loathsome 
hyena.  Believe  it,  Chub.  Maybe  that's  another  thing 


152  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

I'm  driving  at.  ...  Hello,  here  we  are  at  the 
smoke  stack.  Light  a  match.  Or  did  you  notice  al- 
ready this  hieroglyphic  picture,  here  on  the  side?  Some- 
body smeared  it  on  with  red  clay." 

"Yes,"  said  Chubbuck  dully.  The  palpable  change 
of  subject,  he  felt,  was  but  a  sardonic  grimace  at  his 
sense  of  defeat.  "I  noticed  it  this  morning." 

"Make  anything  out  of  it?" 

"Some  peon  kid  trying  to  draw  a  man  in  a  foot  race, 
I  suppose." 

"But,"  persisted  Krag,  satanically  intent  on  exas- 
perating the  other  with  this  trifle,  "  imagine  now ;  what  if 
it  were  picture  writing?  An  Aztec  message,  say.  How'd 
you  translate  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I'm  going  to  bed.     I'm  —  tired." 

"Wait.  Wouldn't  you  read  it  something  like  this: 
'Come  a-running?'" 

"I  suppose  so.     Good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Krag,  hard  and  short. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

A  Long,  Long  Job 

THE  next  morning's  sun  found  Krag  in  mid-desert, 
a  solitary  horseman  plodding  on  and  on  toward 
the  purpled  silhouette  of  mountain  range. 
From  his  horse's  tail  dangled  the  rope  of  one  drooping 
led  horse,  which  laboured  through  the  sand  under 
blanketed  bales. 

Krag  had  made  up  his  bundles  the  night  before,  alone 
in  the  smelter  hospital.  Roughest  clothing,  instruments, 
drugs,  went  into  them.  He  chose  mustard  plasters 
sparingly.  Morphine,  the  sedative,  had  obviously  sup- 
planted them  in  his  pharmacopoeia.  An  afterthought; 
he  scribbled  his  resignation  from  the  smelter's  employ, 
and  left  it,  weighted  by  a  quinine  bottle,  on  his  dust- 
covered  desk. 

On  the  desert,  as  he  rode,  himself  and  horse  a  gray- 
yellowed,  sand-swept,  scarcely  moving  speck,  he  seemed 
to  amuse  himself  from  time  to  time,  but  queerly,  uncan- 
nily, as  when  a  man  mutters  to  himself.  His  amuse- 
ment, if  that  is  the  word,  was  this : 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  little  hand  mirror,  rubbed 
off  the  coating  of  dust  with  his  sleeve,  rested  it  on  his 
saddle  horn,  and  bent,  until  he  encountered  his  reflec- 
tion in  the  glass.  Minutes  passed  as  he  gazed  steadily 

153 


154  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

on  his  own  face.  He  might  have  been  deep  in  an 
abstruse  book. 

The  first  time  that  morning  when  he  bethought  himself 
of  the  mirror,  the  ugly  smile  drew  down  the  corner  of 
his  mouth,  and  in  the  glass  he  saw  the  smile  mocking 
him.  Abruptly  he  spat,  the  venom  smearing  the  glass 
between  the  two  faces. 

"It  is  a  black  heart,"  he  said  slowly.  "It's  there, 
the  black  heart,  in  my  eyes,  on  my  mouth,  where  all 
the  world  may  see.  Even  my  baby  girl " 

He  seized  the  mirror,  swung  it  over  his  head,  as  if  to 
hurl  it  and  shatter  the  image  that  was  there  no  longer. 
But  he  laughed  horridly  in  self -contempt.  He  brought 
the  mirror  again  before  him.  The  image  of  quicksilver 
and  the  visage  of  flesh  held  one  another  fixedly.  Slowly 
the  sinister  creases  between  the  steel-gray  eyes  grew  less 
deep.  Slowly  the  hard  jaw  slacked,  and  the  lips  parted, 
as  if  to  smile.  But  it  was  benevolence  in  caricature; 
grotesque,  diabolic,  and  uglier  by  far  than  the  old  warped 
smile. 

The  man  vented  a  low  grunt,  a  token  as  near  despair 
as  his  gnarled  soul  ever  boded  forth.  He  dropped 
the  mirror  in  his  pocket,  and  gravely  shook  his  head. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  long,  long  job,"  he  thought.  Then, 
to  the  long,  long  job,  he  summoned  the  resolution  and  the 
patience  that  those  two  things  meant  in  him. 

Now  and  again  throughout  the  day's  weary  journeying, 
when  his  features  set  rigid,  and  his  lower  jaw  locked  over 
the  upper,  and  he  was  deepest  in  his  black  thoughts, 
he  would  suddenly  remember,  and  take  out  the  mirror, 
and  hold  it  unflinching  until  each  cruel  line  in  the  reflected 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  155 

image  softened,  though  the  visage  became  flabby  and 
disgusting  in  its  hypocrisy.  Then  he  put  the  mirror  away. 
His  patience  did  not  break  again.  This  was  the  begin- 
ning of  the  long,  long  job. 

By  late  afternoon  he  was  in  the  noble  canon  where  he 
and  Maisie  and  Chubbuck  had  made  camp,  and  where 
their  camp  had  been  he  spread  his  blankets. 

From  any  sheltered  rock,  from  any  bush  behind  him, 
above  him,  or  on  the  stupendous  cliffs  opposite,  a  rifle 
ball  might  have  taken  him  neatly.  But  he  did  not  lift 
his  gaze  to  either  rock,  or  bush,  or  cliff.  He  was  as  in 
his  own  house,  as  though  aware  of  every  object  about 
him.  Yet  he  had  reason  to  be  sure  that  eyes  were 
on  him,  and  that  the  eyes  were  behind  a  gun 
barrel.  Notwithstanding,  the  first  thing  he  did, 
after  unburdening,  staking,  and  feeding  his  tired 
horses,  was  to  lay  his  fire-arms  —  two  rifles  and 
a  pistol  —  a  distance  from  his  blankets,  where 
in  case  of  surprise  during  the  night  he  could  reach  them 
with  difficulty,  if  at  all.  He  threw  off  his  coat,  revealing 
himself  in  woollen  shirt,  breeches  foxed  with  chamois,  and 
laced  boots.  An  unconcerned,  dauntless  figure,  and  un- 
armed, he  busied  himself  kindling  a  fire  for  his  supper. 
He  poured  aguardiente  in  a  hollowed  rock,  lighted  it,  and 
therein  boiled  four  eggs.  He  ate  them  with  tortillas 
warmed  on  the  coals.  That  done,  he  lay  on  his  stomach, 
thrust  his  face  in  the  little  mountain  stream,  and  drank. 
He  slept  the  night  through  without  stirring.  When  Krag 
slept,  he  slept  for  the  purpose  of  sleeping. 

On  awakening,  without  a  glance  to  note  if  his  fire-arms 
were  where  he  had  left  them,  he  cooked  and  ate  his 


156  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

breakfast,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  He  put  his  hands 
to  his  mouth,  and  trumpeted  forth: 

"Coyote!—  Vale  Coyote!" 

The  echoes  reverberated  in  distant  nooks  of  the  canon. 
He  waited  until  the  last  had  died  away,  and  put  up  his 
hands  again.  Behind  him  some  one  touched  his  elbow. 

"Well,  Coyote,"  said  Krag. 

First  he  pressed  his  fingers  tips  between  his  brows, 
rubbing  out  the  furrows  of  a  scowl.  Then  he  turned  and 
beheld  his  Yaqui.  The  lithe  young  warrior  was  naked 
except  for  loin  cloth.  The  white  serape  of  a  runner 
lay  over  one  arm.  Lean  as  a  timber  wolf,  of  stringy, 
supple  muscles;  erect,  sleek,  clean;  breathing  free, 
poised  as  for  instant  motion,  he  stood  like  an  Olym- 
pian victor  in  bronze;  and  Krag,  contemplating  him, 
smiled  fondly. 

The  taunting  glee  on  the  savage's  face  vanished. 
He  had  hoped  to  startle  the  white  man. 

"I  wait  here,  three  days,"  the  Yaqui  spoke  chidingly, 
as  the  proud  host  of  a  laggard  guest. 

"So?"  said  Krag.  "I  waited  almost,  to  call  twice." 
He  extended  his  hand.  There  was  something  of  insult 
in  the  gesture,  and  the  curl  of  his  lip  confirmed  it.  His 
whole  demeanour  goaded  the  Indian  to  spurn  the  offered 
hand.  The  savage  hesitated,  his  fingers  playing  restively 
over  the  lock  of  his  rifle.  Krag  waited  and  watched  him 
with  that  twisted  smile,  as  a  trainer  watches  and  loves  the 
snarling  leopard  who  will  in  the  end  obey.  The  cold, 
calm,  confident  waiting  compelled  at  last.  In  a  sudden 
impulse  of  affection  that  was  itself  ferocity,  the  Yaqui 
took  Krag's  hand.  For  the  white  man  the  clasp  was 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  U7 

the  coiling  of  a  snake.     For  the  Indian  it  was  the  bruise 
of  granite. 

"  Peace,  my  Vale  Coyote,"  said  Krag.  "  Four  mornings 
since,  I  saw  your  sign  of  a  running  man  on  the  great  stack. 
But  there  was  work  yet.  I  had  a  loaf  to  bake."  He 
swept  a  hand  up  the  ravine,  toward  the  old  Spanish  mine, 
the  spurious  Veto,  Negra.  "The  babes  must  eat  when 
I  am  gone.  Now  I  am  here.  I  am  alone." 

The  Indian  bared  his  teeth  in  a  sudden,  gleaming  smile. 
He  knew  the  white  man  was  alone.  While  the  white 
man  slept,  he  had  made  sure.  He  and  his  tribe,  deceived 
down  the  centuries,  trusted  no  alien,  nor  yet  this  one, 
who  had  saved  him  from  a  Mexican  holiday,  and  spoke 
his  language.  That  chamber  of  magic  and  this  white 
man's  temple  of  pain,  which  was  the  Indian's  prison  house 
for  one  night,  had  filled  during  that  night  with  fumes, 
stifling  his  wearied  guards  under  a  sleep  like  death; 
yet  the  captive  had  awakened,  and  he  was  breathing 
air  like  the  air  on  the  highest  peaks,  only  the  air  was 
in  a  bag,  and  cleared  his  head  and  exhilarated  his  being 
and  made  his  limbs  as  springs  of  steel;  and  this  white 
man,  the  wizard  of  that  chamber,  had  led  him  by  the  hand 
until  they  were  beyond  the  smelter  walls,  and  there  had 
loosed  him  on  the  wide  world,  giving  him  a  saddled  horse 
for  flight.  But  the  man  of  those  black  arts  had  asked  of 
him  nothing,  only  the  making  of  a  sign  on  the  great  stack 
after  the  moon  should  wane  and  fill  again.  The  ways 
of  this  white  man  were  inscrutable.  It  might  be  that 
he  had  loosed  one  wounded  bird  as  a  decoy  to  trap  the 
flock.  Whatever  the  strange  riddle,  the  young  Indian 
would  bate  no  jot  of  arrogance  to  put  a  question. 


158  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Doctor  Krag,  adept  in  the  human  heart,  knew  as  much 
already.  "You  ask  me  why  I  come,  Coyote?" 

"I?     I  did  not  speak." 

"And  what  I  wish,  Coyote?" 

The  bead-like  eyes  wavered. 

"Peace,  peace,"  said  Krag,  "you  do  not  need  to  speak. 
My  wish,  then,  is  to  dwell  among  worthy  wolves.  You 
will  take  me  to  your  people,  Coyote." 

The  coppery  lips  bared  the  teeth  for  an  instant,  but 
with  that  the  Yaqui's  surprise  had  passed. 

Krag  thought  of  him  as  a  superb  pet.  Moreover, 
Krag's  affection  for  his  people  was  real.  White  men 
had  long  since  driven  the  Yaquis  from  docility 
to  bloodthirst.  Enduring  through  generations,  the 
bloodthirst  grew  into  instinct.  And  purpose  that 
touched  instinct,  varying  as  little  as  the  herding  of  wolves 
to  bring  down  a  foe,  was,  in  Krag's  thought,  an  admirable 
thing. 

The  admirable  thing  was  even  then  whetting  the 
young  barbarian's  fancy.  He  believed  he  saw  a  feast 
of  torture,  the  zest  of  the  warrior  elders  and  old  women, 
the  expectancy  and  delight  of  children,  when  this  prince 
of  pain,  who  had  wrung  the  homage  of  a  smothered  gasp 
from  a  Yaqui,  should  himself  come  to  resist  Yaqui  fire 
and  Yaqui  art,  and  writhe,  surely,  at  the  last.  The 
feast  would  be  a  rare  one.  A  bright  crimson  tip  of  tongue 
darted  forth,  touching  the  coppery  lips. 

Krag  saw  the  murderous  lust  plainly.  "If  I  choose," 
he  said,  "I  will  keep  your  people's  graves  waiting  for 
them.  Remember,  Coyote,  your  own  had  all  but  closed 
over  you." 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  159 

"And  will  you  stab  us  to  sleep,  to  the  sleep  in  Para- 
dise?" he  asked,  recalling  the  bliss  that  came  from  a 
needle  thrust. 

Krag  laughed.  Always  the  weakness  of  flesh,  always ! 
Even  this  copper  stoic,  making  no  concession  to  pain, 
was  lecherous  in  the  memory  of  oblivion.  Krag  nodded 
his  head.  "If  I  choose,"  he  said. 

Perplexity  clouded  the  Yaqui's  features.  Why  did 
the  hard,  strange,  ponderous  rock  of  man  wish  to  live 
in  the  desert  sierra  among  the  hunted  masters  of  the 
wilderness?  Like  all  his  kind,  did  he  hunger  for  a  hidden 
mine?  No,  since  he  had  found  a  mine  already.  To 
betray  them?  Perhaps.  But  hardly.  The  man  was 
not  an  imbecile.  The  Mexican  government  had  offered 
no  reward.  One  does  not  offer  rewards  for  a  slice  of 
the  moon.  The  warrior  elders  would  have  to  decide. 
Yet  the  perplexity  grew  threatening  in  the  serpent 
eyes. 

"Well,  Coyote?" 

Slowly  the  wild  ferocity  which  was  affection  roused 
the  Yaqui.  "I  know,"  he  cried,  his  voice  like  the  deep 
note  of  falling  waters.  "You  are  weary  of  your  kind. 
You  call  them  babes.  Soft  pink  babes  they  are.  Yes, 
you  would  weary  of  them.  I  understand.  And  call 
me  Coyote,  if  you  wish,  though  in  the  tribe  I  am 
Tetibite." 

Krag  nodded  toward  his  rifles  and  pistol.  They  were 
where  he  had  laid  them  the  night  before.  "They  are 
yours,  Coyote,"  he  said,  "and  many  cartridges.  I  hear 
that  some  of  your  sharpest  marksmen  must  even  use 
the  old  bows  and  arrows." 


160  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"You  almost  are  welcome,"  returned  the  Yaqui. 
"These  are  precious." 

Krag  nodded  again  —  toward  his  horses.  He  wanted 
one  saddled,  and  both  made  ready  for  the  journey.  He 
wanted  the  Yaqui  to  do  it  for  him.  There  was  no 
misunderstanding  that. 

Instantly  the  savage's  rifle  was  levelled  from  his  waist. 
"Am  I  then  thy  son?"  he  hissed. 

"Yet  you  will  saddle  my  horse,  I  think,"  said  Krag. 

The  Yaqui's  lean  breast  rilled  exultantly.  His  eyes 
fell  on  his  weapon,  and  he  seemed  bewildered,  as  if 
unable  to  remember  what  he  had  meant  to  do  with  it. 

"I  will  saddle  thy  horse,  my  father,"  he  said,  leaping 
to  the  task. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

The  Lone  Oak 

ONE  night  some  two  years  later,  while  a  storm 
tore  and  snapped  at  earth  and  in  each  lightning 
flash  the  sierra's  teeth  were  bared  at  heaven, 
the  padded  foot-falls  of  a  Yaqui  runner  splashed  the 
mountain  trail*  in  open,  generous  rhythm.  There  was 
no  sight  of  him  as  he  ran  except  the  ghostly  streak  of 
his  serape,  which,  like  a  wing,  fluttered  from  his  shoulder. 
The  night  was  black,  and  the  driven  sheets  of  rain  were 
blinding,  except  when  the  lightning  crashed  about  him, 
but  he  tossed  and  caught  a  little  wooden  ball  to  while 
away  the  hours  along  the  mountain's  heaving  breast. 
His  stride  was  as  free,  his  breathing  as  exultant,  as  when 
at  sunset  he  had  caught  up  a  spoken  message  from  the 
relay  before  him  and  started  on  his  flight.  His  forbears 
in  their  youth  had  done  the  same,  when  Aztec  emperors 
desired  fish  out  of  the  Vermilion  Sea. 

In  the  wild  night  a  dog  yelped  madly.  Then  another. 
Then  many.  They  raged  in  low-walled  yards,  with 
currish  discretion.  Here  was  a  mortal  note  laid  on  storm 
and  darkness.  The  runner  knew  there  were  scattered 
huts.  He  had  come  to  a  village  of  his  people.  A 
drenched  thing,  a  human  arm,  barred  his  way,  out- 
stretched against  his  throat.  A  dark,  crouching  object, 

161 


162  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

a  canon,  an  ancient  mountain  howitzer,  lay  across  his 
trail. 

"Ah,  Tetibite,  but  do  not  crack  thy  shins,"  said  the 
vidette  cheerily,  when  he  had  made  certain  that  lie 
knew  the  runner.  Yet  concerning  the  runner's  mes- 
sage, which  must  have  been  a  grave  one,  he  asked  no 
question.  Curiosity  is  no  habit  of  speech  in  the  Yaqui 
country.  The  runner  passed  into  the  village. 

The  huts  were  dark.  Where  perceived  at  all,  they 
were  a  denser  shadowing  of  the  night.  Not  a  tallow  dip 
was  alight  behind  the  walls  of  plaited  twigs.  No  ember 
glowed  in  dead  ashes.  But  the  runner  halted  before  the 
dwelling  of  the  elder-man  of  the  village.  The  elder 
himself  came  from  the  doorless  hut  among  the  frantic 
dog-s.  Clutching  his  flapping  blanket  to  him,  he  passed 
among  goats  and  burros  huddled  close  in  his  little  corral, 
and  spoke  to  the  runner  at  the  low  rock  wall. 

The  runner  tossed  his  ball  a  final  time.  "Cajemi 
has  been  shot,"  he  said. 

Cajemi  was  the  tribal  chieftain. 

Trees  bent  in  a  rush  of  wind  through  the  defile.  The 
elder  waited  until  that  turmoil  was  past. 

"He  is  dead?  "he  asked. 

"He  is  dying,"  said  the  messenger.  "The  pelones"  — 
the  word  means  lepers,  but  the  Yaqui  meant  Mexican 
soldiers  —  "begged  for  peace.  Cajemi  went  to  Guay- 
mas  to  hear  them ' 

The  old  Yaqui  groaned.  "If  Cajemi  did  that,  then 
our  need  of  another  chief  is  heavy." 

"But,"  said  the  runner,  "Cajemi  did  not  altogether 
trust  them.  He  went  only  to  their  barracks.  He 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  163 

would  not  enter,  and  they  shot  him  from  the  walls.  lie 
fell  on  his  face,  so  his  murderers  are  surely  doomed. 
His  daughter,  alone  with  him,  dragged  him  back.  She 
dragged  him  to  the  adobe  of  a  pacifico,  and  there  Cajemi 
lies  hidden." 

"What  is  your  message,  Tetibite?" 

A  bolt  splintered  rocks  on  the  shoulder  of  a  peak 
above  them.  In  the  vivid  flash  the  elder  saw  the  cou- 
rier's gleaming  smile. 

"The  message,"  he  said,  "is  Cajemi's.  It  is  to  kill. 
At  the  mines,  in  settlements,  haciendas,  towns,  where 
you  find  a  Mexican,  let  him  have  Cajemi's  message. 
Now  call  another  runner  to  carry  on  the  signal.  I  am 
going  back.  Cajemi  is  dying." 

"Who  knows  that  he  is  dying?"  demanded  the  elder. 
"We  used  to  know  when  death  was  near,  but  that  was 
before  death  had  to  pass  the  Lone  Oak." 

"Aye,  the  Lone  Oak,"  said  the  runner.  "I  come  for 
him." 

"He  is  here,"  said  the  elder,  "asleep,  no  doubt,  bedded 
as  a  shell  in  the  rock.  An  hour  ago  he  returned  through 
the  storm.  A  child  in  the  valley  was  ill." 

"He  will  go  with  me." 

"He  will  go  with  you,  yes.  He  always  goes.  You 
know  his  jaical?" 

The  runner  grunted.  Surely  he  knew  that  hut  best. 
The  measured  splash-splash  of  his  sandals  was  lost  at 
once  in  the  tempest. 

The  hut  of  the  priest-like  Samaritan  whom  Yaquis 
called  the  Lone  Oak  was  like  the  others,  a  hive-shaped 
blur  in  the  tumultuous  night.  There  was  no  door,  and 


164  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  runner  bent  his  head  under  the  matted  brush  of  the 
roof  and  entered.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  black 
pocket.  A  man's  heavy  breathing  filled  each  lull  of 
the  storm.  It  rasped  in  its  cadence.  Somewhat  of 
a  soul  venting  fettered  impatience  was  in  the  sound. 
The  intruder  grinned.  "He  hates  most,"  he  thought, 
"to  have  taken  from  him  what  one  cannot  give  him  back, 
his  sleep.  Hoo-ee,  my  father,  awake! " 

The  breathing  ceased,  or  blended  into  a  groan  of  un- 
speakable weariness.  The  runner  laughed;  but  purposely, 
to  voice  his  mirth.  A  torturer's  genius  inspired  him. 
"My  time,"  he  thought,  "my  time!  All  other  times  he 
is  master.  Hoo-ee,  my  father!" 

"Thou  tongue  of  hell!"  rumbled  forth  a  great  voice, 
"and  curse  thy  noise!  Here,  find  my  hand.  I  have 
the  matches.  How  now,  my  Vale  Coyote?" 

The  match,  of  Mexican  wax,  flashed  alight,  and  a 
hand  that  might  have  been  an  ogre's  held  it  to  a  candle. 
The  hand  was  of  a  huge  bearded  man  half  risen  from  a 
bunk  in  the  back  of  the  hut.  He  had  thrown  a  sheet 
and  bear  skins  from  him,  and  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  couch  his  night  shirt  of  clean  white  muslin  fell  away 
and  revealed  a  massive,  hairy  chest.  His  beard  was 
tumbled  curls,  virile  as  the  Jove  of  Phidias,  and  seemed 
of  bronze,  with  a  dark,  fugitive  sheen.  It  hid  his  mouth 
and  the  lines  there,  whether  of  benevolence  or  cruelty. 
He  caught  up  a  mirror  from  a  stool  at  his  bedside,  looked 
once,  and  laid  it  down,  and  passed  a  hand  across  his 
brow,  heavily,  as  though  to  press  out  the  furrows  of 
a  scowl. 

Hardship  and  perils  are  of  the  day's  work,  and  a  good 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  165 

shepherd  takes  no  thought  of  his  own  life.  But  a  warm 
bed,  and  a  storm  without,  when  one  is  heavy  with  sleep, 
when  the  simulacrum  of  death  nourishes  the  body  to 
take  up  life  again,  when  one  is  snatched  from  that  lethal 
tomb,  then  in  truth  a  saint  might  scowl  and  be  forgiven. 
James  Krag,  come  like  a  tribal  god  among  the  Yaquis 
and  hedged  inscrutably  in  the  mystery  of  godship,  at 
such  a  time  fought  with  himself  his  hardest  fight,  and 
the  young  savage  in  malignant  glee  seemed  to  know  it. 

Krag  saw  the  flashing  teeth,  and  his  gray  eyes,  cleared 
by  mountain  living  and  mountain  perils,  as  steady  and 
strong  and  calmly  fierce  as  the  eagle's,  narrowed  on  the 
lean,  dripping  Indian,  considering  him.  A  viper's  eyes 
met  them,  unmoving,  alert. 

It  was  the  old  duel,  yet  plainly  these  two  were  glad 
to  see  each  other.  The  duel  of  their  wild  natures  was 
life.  It  was  a  jungle  bond  of  affection.  All  that  could 
taunt,  sting,  and  make  mad,  lay  in  the  insolence  of  the 
white  man's  contemplation,  and  the  Yaqui's  gaze,  shifting 
thirstily,  darted  to  a  knife  struck  in  the  latticed  wall. 
Krag's  laugh,  sneer,  chuckle,  grunt  —  all  four  it  was 
—  invited  the  Indian  to  strike.  The  naked  body 
trembled.  Krag  stretched  back  comfortably  on  his  bed. 

"If  that's  all,  my  Vale  Coyote,  Nature  still  owes  me 
two  nights  of  sleep.  Take  the  knife  when  you  go." 
He  turned  on  his  side,  closing  his  eyes. 

"My  father,"  exclaimed  the  Yaqui,  surrendering. 

"Stand  off  my  matting,"  said  Krag.  "The  water  is 
cascading  over  thy  ribs  like  many  brooks.  Choose  a 
blanket,  and  hang  thy  serape  to  dry." 

"There  is  no  time.     I  come " 


166  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Ho,  do  you?    Then  I  am  blind." 

"Be  dressing  while  I  speak."  Yet  the  Yaqui  did  not 
give  at  once  his  real  message.  There  was  another,  one 
more  apt  to  stir  the  imperturbable  Oak.  "  I  come  not  long 
since  from  the  Great  Stack.  I  went  to  gather  cartridges 
and  powder  from  the  pacificos.  They  can  give  little 
besides  their  wages  since  you  are  there  no  more." 

Krag  sat  again  on  the  bunk,  and  was  lacing  his  boots. 
The  Yaqui  could  not  see  his  face,  but  at  mention  of  the 
Great  Stack,  the  fingers  tightened  on  the  strings. 

"They  have  found  your  bones,"  said  the  Yaqui. 
"They  found  them  in  the  Barranca  Quebrante,  near  the 
trail  of  the  new  iron  road  where  you  told  me  to  put 
them.  The  builders  of  the  iron  road  found  them.  They 
were  yellowed  by  the  sun.  They  were  clothed  in  your 
rags,  and  the  gold  band  from  your  finger  was  on  one  finger. 
Our  people,  the  pacificos,  heard  these  matters  when  the 
Gringos  of  the  Great  Stack  talked." 

"What  more?"     The  voice  was  hard,  impersonal. 

"We  let  the  builders  of  the  iron  road  build  until  they 
found  the  bones.  Then  we  drove  the  builders  again 
across  the  desert  back  to  the  Great  Stack.  That  is  as 
you  wish,  so  the  building  of  the  road  may  cost  much 
money.  We  killed  threescore,  and  the  pelones  threw 
away  seventeen  Mauser  guns  when  they  ran." 

"What  more?"  The  voice  was  but  a  shade 
deeper. 

A  tip  of  tongue  wet  the  coppery  lips.  "Your 
woman " 

Krag  raised  his  head,  looked  steadily  at  the  Yaqui. 
He  would  take  this  full  on,  in  the  open.  "Yes?" 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  167 

"She  waited  for  you  a  long  time,  but  still  you  do  not 
come,  and  she  is  now  in  the  north  country  with  her 
people." 

"You  told  me  that  nearly  two  years  ago.  Go  on, 
Coyote." 

"Her  father,  who  builds  the  new  iron  road,  buys  that 
mine  from  her,  so  your  woman  has  much  money."  The 
young  Yaqui  dwelt  on  it  lingeringly.  He  was  baffled, 
and  his  perplexity  was  the  tribe's  also.  For  why,  leaving 
riches  behind  him,  had  this  white  man  come  among  them, 

giving  the  utter  devotion  of  a  saint?  " much,  much 

money,"  the  Yaqui  repeated. 

"You  tell  me  only  what  is  old,  Coyote." 

"Maybe,  but  I  tell  you  also  of  your  friend,  my  father, 
of  that  man  of  the  pink  skin  who  was  so  greedy  for  silver 
rocks  in  the  barranca.  He  has  departed  also  for  the  north 
country " 

"Peace,  Coyote,  that  also  is  stale.  My  friend  secretly 
took  many  pesos  from  the  Great  Stack  people,  for  he 
needed  money  to  hold  his  part  of  the  mine.  And  my 
wife,  because  she  is  rich,  saved  him.  It  is  as  I  planned 
it.  Go  on,  Coyote,  to  what  is  new." 

Homeopath  of  the  human  heart,  he  had  indeed  planned 
it  so.  A  potion  of  silver  rock  craftily  administered,  and 
human  nature  was  functioning  quite  to  his  notion.  Often 
he  took  the  news  from  his  courier's  mouth  and  foretold 
the  gist  of  it  himself.  But  this  time  he  would  not  mystify 
the  Yaqui.  Something  stifled  the  prompting.  He  even 
wondered  if  he  hoped  that  his  forecast  was  at  fault.  "Go 
on,  Coyote,"  he  said  patiently.  "They  have  found  my 
bones.  Very  good.  White  or  yellow,  I  have  no  more 


168  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

use    for    them.     Therefore    I    am  dead  —  and     .     . 
speak,  thou  snake,  before  I  touch  thee!" 

"And,"  said  the  Yaqui,  "it  comes  to  the  ears  of  the 
Great  Stack  that  the  woman  and  the  pink-face  are 
married  in  the  north  country." 

.  "So,"   said   Krag.     .     .     .     "Now   say   what   brings 
you  here." 

The  Yaqui  stood  silent.  He  was  regarding  Krag's 
rigid,  bloodless  face  with  wolfish  greed.  His  tale  had 
severed  the  white  man's  bond  with  the  white  man's  world, 
and  for  that  the  Indian  was  exultant.  But  it  left  the 
white  man  free,  or  free  in  the  eyes  of  the  tribe,  as  to 
other  bonds,  and  the  jealousy  of  the  young  savage  was 
murderous.  His  gesture  was  sudden,  panther-like.  He 
snatched  the  knife  from  the  wall,  and  held  it. 

"My  father  can  now  take  a  maiden  of  the  tribe." 
he  said. 

That  had  been  hinted  before,  and  Krag  had  laughed. 
He  did  not  laugh  now.  Thinking  of  Maisie,  he  did  not 
laugh.  Coyote  saw  violence  purpling  the  cheek-bones, 
and  gloated  on  that  negative  that  was  his  answer. 

"It  will  be  urged,"  he  murmured.  "The  Yaquis  will 
not  hold  to  my  father's  good  faith  among  them  if  he  says 
no.  Torture  and  death  have  been  kept  back,  but " 

Krag  rose  quietly,  and  struck  him  with  his  open  hand 
on  the  mouth. 

The  Yaqui's  teeth  flashed  white,  but  it  was  a  jubilant 
smile.  "A  good  answer,  my  father,"  he  cried,  tossing 
and  catching  the  knife  as  he  did  the  wooden  ball  when  he 
ran.  "Now  we  will  go  to  Cajemi.  He  is  dying.  He 
would  hide  behind  the  Lone  Oak." 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  169 

"Cajemi  the  chief?" 

"The  great  chief,  yes." 

"To  the  corral,  then,  Coyote.     Bring  my  horse." 

Maisie  married  —  as  he  had  planned!  A  dying  chief 
—  an  event  for  which  he  had  waited !  The  legacy  of  tribal 
secrets  —  here  lay  the  final  advance  on  his  goal ! 


CHAPTER  TEN 

A  Miscalculation 

COYOTE  led,  upturning  his  face  to  the  beating 
rain,  drawing  taut  the  halter  of  the  white  man's 
horse.  On  the  mountain  trail,  the  old  Yaqui 
Trail,  he  brought  down  his  open  stride  to  the  lope  of  a 
wolf,  yet  at  that  the  rider  behind  him  used  spurs  and 
lash,  while  the  horse  sniffed  for  precipices  in  the  black 
turmoil.  Through  the  weird  Mesquite  Forest  the  way 
was  hardly  better,  because  of  low-hanging  limbs,  and 
uprooted  trees,  and  the  eddying  pools  and  quicksands 
of  new-born  torrents.  Daybreak  but  made  it  drearier. 
Before  they  came  to  the  open,  they  stopped  and  waited 
for  night.  The  storm  had  ceased,  and  a  soft  west  wind 
bore  a  tang  of  salt  from  the  Californian  gulf.  Coyote 
said  that  they  were  now  near  the  coast  and  three  leagues 
from  Guaymas.  He  predicted  trouble,  for  the  pelones, 
if  they  had  not  found  Cajemi,  would  be  scouring  town 
and  country. 

With  nightfall  they  started  again,  leaving  Krag's 
horse  staked  in  a  deep  arroyo  bed.  Once,  for  an  hour, 
they  had  to  lie  flat  on  the  plain,  while  two  mounted 
rondas  smoked  cigarettes  under  the  stars  and  talked  and 
waited  to  report  to  their  officer  on  his  round.  Another 
time,  lacking  shadows  of  cactus  clumps  and  bowlders, 

170 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  171 

they  wormed  their  way  across  a  starlit  space.  Or  Coyote, 
poised  with  nostrils  twitching,  as  if  sound  were  a  thing 
of  scent,  heard  a  distant  challenge  and  the  impact  of 
hoofs,  while  the  white  man  heard  neither. 

At  last  they  came  upon  the  crest  of  a  barren  cliff,  and 
looked  down  on  the  roofs  of  a  town,  and  beyond,  on  the 
shimmering  waters  of  a  placid  bay.  They  descended 
by  a  twisting,  beaten  path,  which  opened  on  a  lane 
flanked  by  squalid  adobes.  They  were  in  this  lane, 
hugging  the  shadows,  when  a  startled,  "Halt!  Who 
goes?"  broke  on  them,  which  was  instantly  followed 
by  a  pistol  shot  behind  them. 

Krag  felt  the  Yaqui's  fingers  on  his  arm,  and  they 
sped  silently,  close  along  the  adobe  walls.  One  corner 
they  turned,  and  a  moment  later  swung  short  into  utter 
darkness.  To  Krag  it  seemed  as  if  a  black  cavern  had 
engulfed  them.  It  was  only  a  charcoal  vender's  adobe, 
whose  sooty  hole  in  the  wall  opened  on  the  street.  They 
tested  their  steps  cautiously,  the  Yaqui  guiding.  Once 
the  toe  of  Krag's  boot  caught  on  a  soft  bulk,  and  the 
thing  roused  with  a  querulous  grunt.  But  it  lay  back 
again,  and  all  was  still  as  before.  A  blanketed  family 
lay  scattered  on  the  floor  asleep.  Ahead  there  was  an 
arched  door-way,  and  starlight  flooded  the  patio  beyond, 
where  the  charcoal  merchant  kept  his  burros.  One  little 
beast  was  stretched  prone,  and  Krag  suspected,  from  the 
twisted  neck,  that  it  was  dead. 

Instead  of  leading  out  upon  the  patio,  Coyote  sheered 
off  toward  the  side  wall,  where  the  hovel  was  darkest; 
where,  also,  as  they  discovered  by  groping,  sacks  of  char- 
coal were  banked  to  the  ceiling.  The  Yaqui  stopped 


172  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

and  felt  along  the  bottom  tier,  passing  a  hand  over  the 
end  of  each  bag.  Krag  heard  him  tugging  at  something; 
then  a  bag  was  wrenched  free  and  dragged  out,  and  then 
a  second.  Two  more  bags  above  the  first  two  came  out 
more  easily.  "Follow,"  whispered  the  Yaqui,  and  on 
hands  and  knees  they  crawled  into  a  tunnel  through  the 
charcoal.  Behind  them  some  one  pushed  the  bags  back 
into  place.  The  dust  filled  Krag's  nostrils,  dried  his 
throat,  and  hurt  his  eyes,  although  he  tied  a  handker- 
chief over  his  face.  They  came  to  the  wall  itself,  at  a 
point  where  the  adobe  bricks  were  loose,  and  Coyote 
shoved  them  outward.  Coyote,  and  behind  him  Krag, 
squeezed  through  the  hole,  and  beyond  it  stood  erect, 
again  in  total  darkness. 

"The  Lone  Oak."  It  was  Coyote's  voice.  Krag 
thought  of  liveried  footmen  announcing  a  titled  guest. 
The  silence  held,  and  Coyote  spoke  the  words  again, 
intoning  them  oddly. 

Nothing  of  dread  import  happened.  The  plaint  of 
a  guitar,  invisible  strings  brushed  by  invisible  fingers, 
the  final  chord  of  an  interrupted  song  —  that  was  all. 
Murmuring  of  breeze-swept,  ripening  grain  would  not 
be  softer. 

"Hunh,  thy  Lone  Oak!"  The  voice  was  a  woman's, 
as  rich  and  thick  as  clotted  cream,  gurgling  from  the 
throat.  "Hunh,  it  is  time!  Thou,  Tetibite,  first  put 
back  the  adobes  in  the  wall." 

"Call  me  a  fool,"  retorted  Coyote.     "They  are  back." 

A  match  was  scratched  across  its  box,  and  glowing 
fingers,  a  rounded  arm,  and  a  woman's  head  and  bust 
flashed  with  vivid  warmth  out  of  darkness.  Her  skin 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  173 

was  bright  copper,  tinged  by  rose  beneath.  The  eyes 
were  black,  black  and  sleepy  and  lustrous.  They  blinked 
in  the  yellow  light,  like  smouldering  coals  of  jet.  The 
glossy  hair  flowed  free  and  straight.  The  breast  was 
full,  and  the  dark  red  lips  also,  and  her  even  teeth  were 
white  as  chalk.  One  thought  of  her  teeth  as  keen  and 
sharp.  She  was  a  sleek  and  lithesome  animal,  and 
bounteously  dangerous.  Krag  grunted  in  his  beard. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  Yaqui  matting  of  reeds,  and  as 
she  lighted  a  tallow  dip  near  at  hand,  Krag  saw  a  bow 
and  feathered  arrows  beside  her.  The  guitar,  at  her  other 
side,  was  an  armadillo  shell  mounted  in  cedar.  Her 
white  skirt,  slashed  with  scarlet,  was  of  maguey  fibre 
and  of  her  own  weaving.  A  sleeveless  blouse  of  white 
mania  covered  her  body.  Large  pearls  from  the  Gulf 
of  California,  grooved  and  so  threaded  on  the  strand, 
were  a  barbaric  ornament  that  heightened  the  sheen  of 
tawny  flesh.  Her  feet  were  bare.  At  most  she  was  not 
eighteen,  but  her  being  throbbed  with  a  cruel  greed  of 
fulfillment. 

"It  is  days  even,"  she  complained  in  her  rich,  cloying 
tones,  "that  I  roll  his  tobacco  in  corn  husks."  She 
waved  an  arm  to  a  shrivelled  form  lying  near  her.  "And 
he  has  not  the  breath  to  keep  them  lighted.  But  this 
great  Oak  of  a  Man?  I  want  to  see  him." 

She  rose  with  the  candle,  so  that  Krag  saw  better  and 
understood  where  he  was.  They  were  in  a  side  room  of 
the  charcoal  dealer's  hovel.  It  was  a  long  room,  from 
front  to  back  the  length  of  the  charcoal  dealer's  store. 
It  was,  moreover,  exceedingly  narrow;  a  tall  man  might 
not  lie  across  it.  The  place  was  a  gloomy,  sinister 


174  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

vault.  The  floor  was  the  ground.  The  high  walls  were 
dried  mud.  There  was  not  a  door,  not  a  window,  not 
a  crack.  There  were  steps  against  the  back  wall  to 
the  roof,  but  the  tiling  of  the  roof  showed  no  break. 
Neither  rat  nor  bat  could  have  escaped  an  enemy  in  this 
cell.  The  room  was  like  the  false  bottom  of  a  trunk 
turned  on  its  side.  From  without  the  room's  existence 
was  not  to  be  suspected,  nor  even  proved,  unless  by  actual 
measurement  of  the  walls. 

The  vault  was,  in  effect,  the  false  bottom  of  a  trunk, 
for  its  purposes  were  secret.  Crude,  dingy  apparatus, 
mortars  and  pestles,  old  coffee  mills,  scales  and  measures, 
littered  the  ground.  A  work  bench,  covered  with  sheet 
iron,  was  strewn  with  a  black  powder  resembling  ground 
charcoal.  Some  had  been  scraped  into  a  heap  at  one 
end.  There  were  charcoal  sacks,  filled  and  empty;  there 
were  manilla  bags,  and  a  yellow  stuff  spilling  out;  and 
there  were  boxes  of  a  something  white  and  lumpy.  In 
the  centre  of  the  room  there  was  an  open  well,  with  a 
bucket  and  rope.  Nothing  lacked  for  a  primitive  man- 
ufacture of  gunpowder,  and  the  charcoal  vendor  was 
engaged  in  just  that,  bringing  charcoal  from  his  kilns 
in  the  mountains,  getting  sulphur  and  saltpetre  from 
ships  in  the  bay,  and  smuggling  forth  the  product  in  his 
supposedly  empty  charcoal  sacks.  He  was  a  Yaqui 
pacifico,  this  charcoal  merchant,  and  his  tribal  brethren 
of  the  sierra  required  gunpowder. 

The  candle's  wavering  circle  of  light  passed  over  the 
shrivelled  form,  where  it  lay  bedded  on  sacking  and 
blankets.  A  hideous  old  face  stared  upward,  and  flabby 
cheeks  puffed  out  as  the  thing  sucked  at  a  husk  cigarette 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  175 

hanging  from  its  lower  lip.  This  was  the  thing  that  had 
drawn  Krag  out  of  the  mountains.  The  surgeon  was  tak- 
ing off  his  coat,  when  the  girl  raised  the  candle  to  his  face. 

"Hunk,  the  Oak!"  she  mused  aloud,  peering  into  the 
eyes  under  his  thick  brows.  A  gnarled  monarch,  or 
monstrosity,  of  the  forest,  she  might  have  said.  Storms 
of  passion  could  not  bend  him,  nor  yet  the  clinging  par- 
asite, remorse.  The  girl's  sleepy  eyes  blinked  impudently. 
"  But  what  I  see  of  him  for  the  beard  is  black  with  char- 
coal. Tetibite,  there's  water  in  the  bucket.  Bring 
the  water,  for  I  must  see  this  man." 

Coyote's  fingers  coiled  about  her  arm.  "Quick! 
You  get  the  water,"  he  said.  "My  father  must  cleanse 
his  hands  before  he  works  in  blood.  "What  " —  he  was 
helping  Krag  off  with  his  coat,  and  brought  his 
hand  away,  wet  —  "ay,  and  here  is  blood  already!" 

Krag  glanced  at  him  sharply.  "No  matter,  Coyote," 
he  said.  He  knelt  over  his  coat,  and  began  laying  out  a 
small  instrument  case,  packages,  and  vials  from  the 
pockets.  He  worked  with  despatch  in  these  preparations. 
He  was  not  deceived  by  the  lazy  calm  of  the  face  on  the 
blankets.  "Now  the  water,  and  hasten,  before  the 
great  chief  yonder  departs  in  a  puff  of  his  own  smoke." 

"The  pelon  who  shot  at  us  in  the  street,"  Coyote 
insisted;  "you  were  hit,  my  father!" 

"Where?"  cried  the  girl.  She  brought  water  and  an 
earthern  basin.  "In  his  shoulder?  No,  there,  in  his 
side.  Oo-oo,  we  must  cut  away  his  shirt!" 

Krag  was  rolling  up  his  sleeves,  baring  his  wide,  hard 
forearms.  Unheeding  the  two  young  Yaquis,  he  laved 
his  hands,  but  not  his  face.  Then,  nodding  to  Coyote 


176  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

to  bring  the  candle,  he  gathered  up  his  instruments  and 
went  to  the  old  man.  The  girl  followed.  She  stood  by, 
her  arms  folded,  stroking  her  arms  with  her  finger  tips. 

It  might,  in  the  ghastly  light,  have  been  a  worthless 
peon  huddled  in  his  rags  and  vermin  to  die.  But  there 
were  neither  rags  nor  vermin.  There  was  the  inevitable 
loin  cloth,  that  only.  His  clothes  were  a  heap  on  the 
floor,  and  these  carried  a  chief's  distinction.  There  was 
his  charro  jacket,  heavy  with  silver  and  recently  heavy 
with  his  blood;  his  skin-tight,  silver-laced  leather 
breeches;  his  gold-roped  sombrero;  and  his  small,  high- 
heeled  shoes  with  great,  glittering  spurs.  The  mania 
shirt  had  been  ripped  into  bandages. 

However  withered  and  repulsive,  the  hide  of  him  was 
clean,  for  he  was  a  full-blood  Yaqui.  Whipcord  sinews 
beneath,  as  well  as  bones,  stretched  the  unsightly  parch- 
ment, and  betokened  the  endurance  of  bull  thongs  in 
emaciation.  In  the  features  the  quality  of  hideousness 
mostly  lay.  They  were  loose  and  flaccid,  pierced  by  a 
wiry,  corkscrew  hair  here  and  there  on  the  chin  and  jaw. 
The  copperish  drab  of  the  skin  was  mottled  over  by  a  lep- 
rous pink.  The  eyes  were  only  his  nose's  breadth  apart, 
and  were  seemingly  crowded  against  that  thick  ridge 
by  the  high,  bulbous  cheek-bones.  Because  of  their 
sparse  lashes  and  the  scraggy  brows  shading  the  lids,  the 
effect  of  them  was  that,  when  he  looked  down  his  nose, 
he  seemed  staring  wide  ahead;  and  when  he  opened  them, 
each  was  like  a  weasel  crouching  deep  in  its  hole.  They 
were  the  instinct  of  the  hunted,  not  alone  of  one  old  man 
hunted  through  his  long  life,  but  of  a  tribe,  hunted  from 
generation  to  generation.  His  mouth  was  enormous, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  177 

entrenched  in  shrivelled  lines  curving  from  nostril  to 
chin,  where  the  loose  flesh  lapped  over.  The  upper 
lip  lay  tight  against  the  gums,  but  the  under  hung,  as 
if  cut  away,  and  between  them  the  length  of  grin  was 
spaced  by  three  yellow  fangs.  A  greenish  smear,  war's 
pathetic  panoply,  had  been  rubbed  on  his  chin  and  arms. 
A  bandage  crossed  his  chest,  under  one  arm  and  over  the 
opposite  shoulder,  and  at  one  sickening  spot  it  was  kept 
freshly  wet  by  a  crimson  spring  beneath. 

He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  when  Krag  knelt  by  him. 
"The  candle,"  he  was  muttering.  "This  husk  —  this 
cigarrito " 

"Coyote,"  said  Krag,  "  sit  there  and  tend  his  cigarette. 
The  great  chief,"  he  said,  but  gently,  with  no  shade  of 
irony,  "  must  have  time  for  other  troubles.  When  that 
one  burns  his  teeth,  have  another  ready." 

"Truly,  here  is  the  Yaqui's  good  friend,"  wheezed  the 
old  man.  On  a  rising  inflection  his  hollow  voice  col- 
lapsed entirely.  "Dolores  there,  a  dog  even  would  she 
drag  to  shelter  from  Mexican  bullets.  Ay,  and  I  can 
thank  the  Mexicans  that  she  did  as  much  for  her  father. 
But  she  touches  no  broom  to  sweep  back  death  from  his 
pallet.  Not  one  barrido  has  she  given,  O  Heaven !  And 
she  does  not  hold  steady  the  candle  to  my  cigarrito. 
Yet,  mind  you,  Lone  Oak  " —  the  weasels  were  peering 
from  their  holes  —  "mind  you  now,  since  a  tigress  a 
man  will  have,  a  superb  one  should  he  have,  and  —  but 
look  once  at  Dolores." 

"If  that's  your  name,  Dolores,"  said  Krag,  "fill  the 
bucket  again." 

The  old  man  tried  to  raise  his  head.      "She  —  she 


178  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

obeys ! "  he  murmured  in  grim  astonishment.  He  studied  the 
Yaquis'  good  friend  through  half-closed  lids.  Nor  was  it 
the  surgeon's  work  that  interested  him.  Cajemi  the 
chief  knew  that  he  was  dying.  Each  breath  from  the 
depth  of  his  lungs  brought  up  a  new  moistening,  as  a 
broken  pipe  wets  the  sod  above.  Krag  dared  not  probe 
for  the  bullet.  But  Cajemi  was  not  thinking  of  that. 
His  interest  was  the  face  of  the  white  man,  of  a  young 
white  man,  bearded  and  blackened.  Cajemi  cast  the 
smoke  sideways  from  his  mouth,  that  he  might  always  see 
the  face.  He  was  thinking  of  this:  he  must  leave  many 
Mexicans  behind;  yes,  although  his  life  had  been  a  busy 
one.  His  people,  so  their  legends  said,  once  had  num- 
bered thrice  a  hundred  thousand,  but  that  was  before 
the  centuries  of  fighting  for  their  valley  and  sierra. 
Cajemi  himself  had  led  barely  a  thousand  warriors,  and 
against  his  thousand  they  had  sent  twenty  thousand. 
Yet,  to  bring  him  down  at  last,  they  had  offered  a  treacher- 
ous peace.  But  one  thing  could  follow,  the  death  struggle 
of  the  tribe.  And  the  tribe's  monument  should  be  a 
great  heap  of  Mexicans  slain.  The  thousand  warriors 
must  not  be  unduly  wasted.  There  was  need  in  this  of 
more  than  a  poor  Indian's  craft.  A  rugged  saint  had 
come  among  them,  whom  they  called  the  Lone  Oak,  and 
he  had  often  whispered  good  counsel,  so  that  a  rumour 
stole  into  Mexican  garrisons  of  an  American  officer  whose 
far-discerning  eye  guided  the  Yaqui  strategy,  making  it 
certain  and  deadly,  unerring  in  ambush,  elusive  in  flight, 
fathoms  deep  in  hiding.  The  superstition  thrived  and 
decided  skirmishes. 

Cajemi's  eyes  opened.     "The  Lone  Oak  —  I  heard 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  179 

these  children  saying  —  you  were  hit  by  the  shot  we 
heard." 

Krag's  mouth  twitched  unseen.  "No  matter,"  he 
said,  and  went  on  dressing  the  old  man's  wound. 

"He  has  said  it  twice  —  no  matter,"  Coyote  grum- 
bled. The  young  Yaqui  was  restive.  His  viper  eyes 
were  darting  from  the  chief  to  Krag,  from  Krag  to  the 
girl  stroking  her  arms.  "It  is  not  the  first  pelon  bullet 
my  father  carries  for  us." 

"The  candle  again,  Tetibite."  Cajemi  opened  his 
mouth,  letting  the  smoke  drift  out.  When  the  cloud 
passed,  his  eyes  opened  again  on  Krag.  "Why  for  us?" 
His  voice  was  like  the  rasp  of  a  saw.  "Why  these  things 
for  us?  Why?" 

Krag's  forefinger  pressed  out  a  sudden  scowl,  as 
though  wiping  off  perspiration.  "Why?"  he  said 
wearily.  "My  love  of  wolves,  Cajemi,  is  enduring. 
That  is  why." 

The  old  Yaqui  spat  out  his  cigarette.  "Why?"  he 
cried.  He  knew  he  was  growing  weaker.  "The  true 
answer,  why?" 

"Why  then,"  Krag  burst  forth,  but  his  anger  was 
daring  calculation,  "I  do  not  know.  Why,  truly, 
do  I  come  to  you,  and  not  sleep  in  my  bed?  I  do  not 
know.  You  are  no  wolf.  You  break  the  oath  of  the 
tribe,  the  splendid  Yaqui  oath,  which  is  never  to  stop 
fighting.  Why  do  I  come  to  a  dog?  I  do  not  know." 

Coyote's  chin  jerked  high,  the  white  teeth  showing. 
The  girl  sucked  in  her  breath.  Her  sensuous  fingers 
lowered,  until  their  tips  touched  the  white  man's  head. 
She  and  Coyote  were  with  him.  But  Krag's  calculating 


180  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

went  farther.  He  waited,  as  a  chemist  watches  for  an 
unknown  reaction. 

"A  dog?"  Cajemi  laid  a  hand  on  his  wound,  bathing 
it  in  the  life  fluid  flowing  for  the  tribe.  "Ay,  I  am  a  dog. 
The  Lone  Oak  always  said:  'Never  go  to  a  pelon  for 
peace  talk!'  An  oak  sends  its  roots  far  in  what  is  hidden. 
And  this  wisdom  must  take  my  place.  .  .  .  Lone 
Oak" — his  voice  rose,  edged  and  querulous  —  "be  a 
Yaqui  first,  then  great  chief.  —  A  Yaqui?  —  Thou  art 
a  Yaqui  when  Yaquis  trust  thee.  Take  a  maiden  of 
the  tribe.  So  may  we  know  thou  art  a  tribesman.  Then 
the  secrets  of  the  tribe  are  thine.  The  secrets  —  they  go 
from  me  with  the  last  drop  from  my  veins  to  the  great 
chief  after  me.  Secrets  of  mountain  and  gorge,  of  rock 
and  sand,  of  caves,  of  hidden  mines  .  .  .  Look, 
white  man,  there  is  Dolores.  Take  her!" 

Krag  renewed  the  gauze  on  the  wound.  "So,"  he 
said.  Coyote  from  where  he  sat  looked  up  at  the  girl 
and  mocked  her  in  silent  laughter. 

The  chief  gazed  a  moment  longer.  Then  his  head  rolled 
on  his  pallet.  "  Tetibite,"  he  said,  "  we  must  kill  this 
white  man." 

Krag  smiled.  Coyote,  true  Yaqui,  was  ready  to  obey. 
Dolores,  a  scorned  woman,  was  more  than  ready.  Yet 
Krag's  mirth  was  real.  He  alone  smelt  the  ruse  to 
compel  him. 

The  dying  chief,  although  Krag  read  him  so  well,  was 
already  mouthing  the  fancy  for  one  more  victim  before  he 
went,  but  something,  an  alarm  prearranged,  put  their 
thoughts  to  rout.  The  world  without  was  tapping  on 
their  vault.  Cautiously  deadened  blows  fell  on  the  wall. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  181 

Coyote  snuffed  the  candle.  A  faint  gray  haze  formed 
overhead;  it  was  day  sifting  through  the  fluted  tiles  of 
the  roof.  The  girl  snatched  her  bow  and  arrows,  and 
hurried  up  the  steps  against  the  back  wall.  One  could 
break  through  the  tiling  and  escape  over  the  roofs.  The 
steps  were  provided  for  that.  But  Dolores,  and  Coyote 
close  behind  her,  pulled  out  an  adobe  brick  from  the  top 
of  the  wall,  and  looked  through  the  slit  they  had  made. 
Coyote  motioned  to  Krag,  and  he  climbed  up  beside 
them.  Outside  they  saw  a  man,  a  Mexican  officer  with 
drawn  pistol,  standing  on  the  patio  wall.  He  was  frown- 
ing perplexedly  down  at  the  burros. 

"See,"  whispered  Coyote,  "the  pelon  who  shot  at  us 
last  night.  With  daybreak  he  has  followed  the  blood 
drippings." 

In  effect  this  was  true.  The  Mexican  officer  had 
noticed  spattered  drops  on  the  pavement,  and  he  had 
traced  the  drops  to  the  charcoal  vendor's,  to  lose  them 
there  in  the  trampled  coal  dust.  But  he  hoped  to  pry 
out  the  fugitives  yet,  and  entirely  by  himself.  He  had 
a  pert,  ambitious  air,  and  was  resolved  on  an  elusive 
glory.  Search  of  the  charcoal  store  had  revealed  nothing. 
The  fugitives  must  have  fled  by  way  of  the  patio. 

Coyote  and  the  girl  were  fighting,  silently,  viciously. 
He  had  snatched  at  the  bow.  She  had  brought  her 
nails  through  his  cheek. 

"Let  me!" 

"No,  no,  he  is  mine!" 

The  Mexican  on  the  wall  turned  slowly.  His  puzzled 
gaze  was  travelling  toward  their  loophole.  Coyote 
uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  "Quick!"  he  hissed.  "You  must, 


182  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Dolores;  he  is  my  own!  —  Listen,  I  have  felt  his  chains, 

his  sword,  his  foot.  Ask "  They  turned  appealing, 

flaming  faces  to  Krag. 

Krag  nodded.  He,  too,  had  recognized  Coyote's 
captor,  the  sub-lieutenant  of  that  day  in  the  gorge. 
Reluctantly  Dolores  surrendered  the  bow.  "But  the 
next  shot "  she  insisted. 

Coyote  fitted  an  arrow,  pulled  the  feathered  butt  to  his 
eye,  and  the  twang  of  the  release  interrupted  her.  "Pig!" 
she  snapped  vengefully. 

Krag  looked  away,  but  to  cover  that  weak  gesture  he 
said,  "Somebody  has  killed  cock  robin." 

The  body  fell  into  the  patio.  Two  blackened,  leather- 
aproned  men  ran  out  and  dragged  it  into  the  charcoal 
dealer's.  When  Dolores  had  seen  quite  the  last  of  that, 
she  flung  herself  from  the  steps  in  a  tantrum  and  went 
to  her  father. 

Krag  took  Coyote  by  the  shoulder.  The  grip  seemed 
to  crunch  his  bones,  but  the  young  Yaqui  knew  it  for  a 
caress.  "Boy!"  whispered  Krag;  "would  you  like  to 
be  chief?" 

The  warrior  answered  simply.  "I  often  see  how 
Cajemi  might  kill  more  pelones  —  yes." 

"Then  do  a  thing  to  make  talk." 

"My  father  will  tell  me  what  thing?" 

Krag  pointed  through  the  loophole  toward  the  edge 
of  the  town.  "That  higher  building,  with  the  towers?" 

"The  barracks,  of  the  soldiers." 

"You  can  come  near  it  over  the  house  tops?" 

"Surely.     It  is  in  the  next  square." 

"Good,  Coyote,  and  the  thing  will  look  brave.     You 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  183 

will  carry  the  dead  Mexican  over  the  roofs;  then  lash  him 
to  that  flag-staff  on  the  last  roof  yonder,  and  bid  his 
friends  in  the  barracks  come  for  him.  Chief  Tetibite's 
defiance,  we  will  call  the  little  play.  They  will  shoot. 
You  can  escape?" 

The  Yaqui  laughed  easily.  A  friendly  patio,  a  drop 
from  sight;  yes,  he  could  escape. 

"The  burro  drivers,  the  charcoal  man,"  Krag  went  on, 
"they  must  see  the  thing,  that  they  may  tell  of  it  in  the 
sierra  before  the  tribe  chooses  the  next  chief.  Wait, 
there's  a  dead  burro  below.  You  will  wrap  your  friend 
in  the  burro's  skin." 

Admiring  wonder  blended  with  glee  on  the  Indian's 
face.  "Ay,  will  I?"  he  breathed.  "But  Cajemi  is 
right.  My  father  must  be  chief." 

"And   Dolores?" 

The  savage  face  darkened.  "No,"  he  said.  "Chief 
Tetibite  it  shall  be." 

He  was  for  going  at  once  to  the  adventure,  but  Krag 
stayed  him  and  called  Dolores.  She  came  sullenly,  and 
Coyote  jeered.  "Is  it  a  bad  tooth,  Dolores?" 

"Pig!"  she  cried,  flaring.  "When  it  was  my  chance 
to  send  a  pelon  ahead  of  my  father " 

"Peace,"  said  Krag.     "You  have  more  arrows!" 

"Hunk,  to  waste  on  an  Oak,  maybe." 

"No,  for  Coyote  will  provide  the  targets.  Go  with 
him  over  the  house  tops.  Hide  behind  the  farthest 
parapet,  and  when  the  soldiers  come  to  the  barracks 
windows  at  Coyote's  call,  amuse  yourself.  Pick  off 
what  forerunner  for  your  father  you  wish.  Perhaps 
a  colonel,  a  general " 


184  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Her  breast  rose.     "Tetibite,   does  he   speak   true?" 

Coyote  took  her  by  the  hand.  "Only  come,  little 
sister.  Come  out  to  play." 

Like  famished  cubs  crawling  out  of  their  den,  they 
went,  and  Krag  was  alone  with  the  dying  chief.  After 
replacing  the  adobes  in  the  wall,  he  lighted  the  candle 
and  sat  himself  on  the  ground  beside  his  patient.  He 
heard  a  plaintive  rattling  in  the  old  man's  throat. 

"Here,"  said  Krag,  "here  is  one,"  and  he  put  a  cigarette 
between  the  champing  lips.  From  time  to  time  also 
he  plied  him  with  the  wizardry  of  his  science  to  stem  an 
ebbing  vitality. 

"Dolores,"  whispered  the  old  man  —  "where?" 

"She  has  gone.  She  will  be  back  with  news  to 
please  you." 

"Tetibite?" 

"He  is  with  her." 

"And  you?  "  The  restless  eyes  steadied  in  their  depths. 
"White  man,  what  do  you  want?" 

Krag  passed  a  hand  over  his  brow,  in  what  seemed  a 
habit  only,  and  bending  forward,  he  quietly  met  that 
scrutiny  of  a  hunted  tribe.  "Cajemi,"  he  said,  "might 
rightly  ask  that  had  I  taken  the  chance  to  be  chief  after 
him.  And  then  the  true  answer  might  be:  'I  want 
those  secrets  of  hidden  mines.'  But  I  refused " 

"White  man,"  came  the  edged  voice,  "what  do 
you  want?" 

"Cajemi,"  Krag  answered  him  patiently,  "I  am  an 
outcast.  What,  then?  What,  if  I  seek  outcasts? 
What,  if  I  give  to  them  my  life?  What,  Cajemi,  what? 
The  answer  is  in  the  question.  Ask  me  no  more," 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  185 

The  old  eyes  wavered.     Something  child-like,  trusting, 
came   into   them.     "You    were  —  shot  —  last    night  — 
on  your  way  to  help  me." 

"That  is  nothing.  —  Ho,  Cajemi,  Cajemi,  you  must 
not  sleep!  Open  your  eyes!  You ' 

"I  am  going,  senor  It  is  —  the  start.  But  hold  me 
until  —  the  secrets ' 

"I  am  listening,   Cajemi." 

"Promise,  you  will  tell  them  —  to  the  chief  after  me 
—  and  forget.  First  the  —  richest,  the  Veto.  Negra. 
In  a  barranca,  the  face  of  the  Barranca " 

"Yes,  Cajemi,  yes?"  Krag's  voice  was  low,  and  of 
wondrous  patience. 

"It  is  called"  —  the  withered  eyelids  fluttered  open,  as 
the  fluttering  soul  within  hovered  over  the  name.  Sud- 
denly his  gaze  was  held,  and  it  struggled  pitifully,  like 
a  bird  on  a  limed  twig.  "Thine  eyes!"  he  screeched. 
"They  are  hungry  —  hungry  —  thine  eyes!"  The  cry 
fell  to  senile,  crafty  mirth,  spluttering  through  a  foam 
on  his  lips. 

A  shot,  then  scattering  shots  and  crazed  yells  burst 
on  the  outside  world.  Two  Yaqui  children  were  baiting 
pelones.  Cajemi  strained  to  rise.  Blood  filled  his 
mouth,  and  he  lay  back,  listening.  "Dolores!"  His 
eyes  closed,  and  the  foam  lathered  his  hideous  grin. 
"Ay,"  he  murmured,  his  mocking  spirit  calling  back  as 
it  went,  "ay,  I  remember,  Dolores.  Thou  hast  the 
secrets  —  coaxed  them  from  me,  wench.  But  Dolores, 
look  into  the  white  man's  eyes.  Look " 

"Faugh!"  Krag  threw  a  sack  over  the  face,  and  let 
him  die. 


186  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Krag  got  to  his  feet.  He  drew  back  one  foot,  to  drive 
his  heavy  boot  against  the  corpse.  But  a  spasm  crossed 
his  brow,  and  his  jaws  met.  He  held  himself  from  the 
ghastly  act. 

The  muscles  of  his  body  relaxed,  and  the  pent-up 
flood  of  his  being  receded.  A  cold,  dead  smile  parted 
his  lips.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  stock.  His  wife  and 
baby  girl,  they  were  on  that  side.  They  were  gone, 
paid  out,  cancelled.  The  bleak  loneliness  of  life,  that 
also  he  was  paying.  Two  years  of  it  he  had  paid  already. 
They  were  two  years  of  dreary  toil  in  —  what?  In 
human  pity.  No  inner  thought  of  self  was  given  out- 
ward expression.  During  two  years  every  breath  he 
drew  was  given  to  his  fellow  man,  to  the  poor  hunted 
Indian,  to  the  fellow  creature  who  needed  him  most. 
Over  on  that  side  were  those  things.  On  this  side,  what? 
Futility !  Colossal  futility !  The  dead  Yaqui  at  his  feet 
had  just  paid  him  off. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  mirror,  and  looked 
in  it  intently,  this  bankrupt.  His  face  was  blackened, 
as  he  had  purposely  left  it,  the  better  to  blur  expression. 
The  tumbled  beard  hid  his  mouth,  and  the  lines  of  his 
mouth.  There  was  nothing  significant  to  behold,  noth- 
ing to  betray  him,  nothing,  except  the  eyes  and  his  fellow 
man's  intuition.  He  looked  long  and  thoughtfully 
into  the  eyes.  He  saw  as  the  dead  Yaqui  saw.  A  man 
may  not  hide  the  blackness  within.  He  pondered  this 
truth.  Two  years  had  made  it  known  to  him.  Ah  —  the 
eyes  were  suddenly  glittering  —  here  was  one  asset  at  least 
out  of  the  rubbish !  He  credited  the  two  lost  years  with 
the  elimination  of  a  vital  error.  He  had  miscalculated. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  187 

"The  Lord  Christ  himself,"  he  muttered,  "would 
have  failed  by  only  doing.  One  must  be  the  thing!" 

Still  he  thought  long,  and  as  he  thought,  his  expres- 
sion changed.  It  hardened  to  granite  with  resolve. 
At  last  he  let  the  mirror  fall,  and  quietly  ground 
it  under  his  heel.  "I  will!"  he  said  aloud.  "I  will 
be  the  thing!" 

He  picked  up  his  coat  and  turned  out  one  of  the  pockets. 
Bits  of  glass  fell  to  the  floor.  They  had  been  a  flask,  and 
the  flask  had  been  filled  with  a  potent  cordial.  But  a 
bullet,  doing  no  other  harm,  had  broken  the  flask  and 
wet  the  man  as  with  his  own  blood.  "That,"  he  reflected, 
"was  not  being  the  thing." 

Then  he  knelt,  and  lifted  the  sack,  and  closed  the  dead 
man's  eyes. 

He  discovered  that  this  act  was  setting  his  foot  in 
the  path  of  most  resistance.  For  the  act  itself  he  loathed 
himself,  but  he  gloried  in  the  new  foe  that  he  had  encoun- 
tered. He  wondered  at  the  terrible  and  diabolic  strength 
of  this  new  foe  that  was  himself.  He  wet  his  lips 
thirstily  for  the  struggle  to  come. 


PART  III 


THE   TREASURE 


CHAPTER  ONE 

The  New  Strategy 

RIFLES,  bullets,  bows  and  arrows,  and  an  indus- 
trious torch,  if  not  hampered  by  a  peevish  civ- 
ilization—  these  can  have  a  rich  effectiveness  in 
murder.  Also  they  have  a  downright  frankness,  a  clean 
quality  of  horror,  mightily  invigorating  after  crimes  of  the 
slums,  and  the  cynical  subtleties  of  crime  on  the  other 
crust.  Perhaps  it  is  a  matter  of  atmosphere.  A  man 
might  conceivably  prefer  being  tomahawked  on  a  clear 
frosty  night  to  certain  adventures  in  a  foul  cellar.  It 
is  certain,  at  least,  that  Krag  loved  his  Yaquis. 

The  new  state  of  these  coppery  children  was  a  freehold 
of  hell.  It  had  been  bad  enough  before,  under  truculent 
old  Cajemi.  And  Cajemi,  by  letting  himself  be  trapped 
and  slain,  was  in  his  grave  making  it  so  much  worse  now. 
Because  of  that  treachery  the  old,  dull  pain  leaped  to 
jumping  agony.  The  tribe  bit  and  tore,  with  a  madman 's 
horrid  frenzy. 

An  expression  of  this,  the  very  keynote  of  it,  was  a 
foeman's  corpse  wrapped  in  an  ass's  skin  and  flaunted 
under  the  walls  of  the  enemy's  citadel.  Such  a  reckless 
and  classic  deed  made  articulate  the  tribe 's  rage,  and  the 
tribe  spoke  gratefully.  It  named  Coyote  chief. 

Because  of  the  rainy  season  when  Cajemi  died,  the 

191 


192  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Mexicans  kept  close  in  barracks,  so  that  in  the  first  raids 
the  Yaquis  worked  their  murderous  will  unchecked. 
But  they  roused  a  formidable  adversary.  The  Mexican 
general  of  that  zone  sent  his  president  in  the  capital 
thousands  of  soldier  caps,  demanding  that  the  caps  be 
returned  with  soldiers  under  them.  The  president  sent 
back  the  caps,  and  the  soldiers  were  under  them.  Like- 
wise the  president  sent  picks  and  shovels  to  widen  the 
old  Yaqui  Trail  into  a  military  road.  Cajemi  had  foretold 
the  death  struggle  of  the  tribe. 

But  the  broncos,  the  hot-bloods  of  the  tribe,  thought 
only  that  there  would  be  more  pelones.  They  were  used 
to  more  pelones,  and  their  hospitality  was  perennial.  The 
call  went  forth  for  the  gathering  of  the  tribe.  It  was  a  low- 
spoken  word.  In  effect  it  was  the  great  gong  clanging  on 
the  teocalli  of  the  Aztec  war  god.  Runners  stole  into 
mining  camps,  haciendas,  towns,  wherever  a  Yaqui 
labourer  dwelt  in  civilization,  and  whispered  the  word. 
Even  the  pacificos  melted  by  scores  into  the  wilderness, 
answering  instinct  as  well  as  the  chief's  call.  They 
sensed  the  perishing  of  their  race. 

The  warriors  left  their  fields  and  villages  in  the  Valley 
—  the  Yaqui  Valley  of  homes  and  flocks  —  and  drew  back 
into  mountain  passes  and  pathless  forests.  They  planted 
corn  on  hillsides  or  in  little  clearings  deep  in  the  wood, 
and  these  the  women  tended  when  the  men  were  gone. 
They  sold  off  their  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats,  buying 
ammunition.  The  children  smuggled  grain  from  the 
towns  or  fish  from  the  coast  and  river,  and  practised 
marksmanship  on  wild  turkey,  deer,  and  bear. 
Arsenals  in  secret  caverns  were  paid  out,  and  the  Yaqui 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  193 

who  could  have  no  fire-arm  made  himself  a  bow  and 
arrows,  or  a  spear. 

Tetibite  made  his  chief's  house  in  that  wild  mountain 
village  of  straggling  huts  where  Krag  lived.  Chihuitl 
was  the  name  of  the  village.  The  word  itself  was  a  mem- 
ory of  Aztec  kinsmen  long  since  conquered,  and  of  a  far- 
off  time  when  Yaquis  dwelt  in  Anahuac  near  to  the  heart 
of  Montezuma.  Only  by  a  hidden  and  perilous  trail 
threading  up  a  deep  barranca  might  one  come  among 
the  nested  huts.  But  no  human  being,  unless  he  were  a 
Yaqui  or  the  Yaquis'  friend  or  a  doomed  prisoner,  ever 
came  that  far.  The  lost  pocket  mid  black  peaks  seemed 
a  region  of  foreboding,  as  though  one  were  under  the 
shadow  of  frowning  giants  and  had  left  hope  behind  in 
the  valley,  where  the  sun  swept  her  domain  broadly.  Yet 
the  sun,  when  zenith  high,  pierced  the  cavernous  nook, 
and  there  were  ferns  in  the  crannies  of  wondrously  tinted 
granite  and  wild  flowers  on  the  ledges  to  tell  that  she  did. 

When  the  rains  ceased,  the  tribe  held  a  fiesta  at  Chi- 
huitl, around  the  chief's  house.  But  the  feast  was  not 
mere  gorging  over  the  oil  pots.  It  foreshadowed  darker 
things.  Feast  they  did,  for  that  matter,  grouped  by 
families  and  friends  about  caldrons  in  the  open  air,  spear- 
ing out  bits  of  wild  duck  or  venison,  while  patient  beldams 
warmed  tortillas  on  the  coals,  and  dogs  snatched  at  bones 
in  unwary  fingers.  The  eating  done,  sleek  youngsters 
played  at  games  of  running,  or  shot  at  marks.  Harps 
and  guitars  mingled  their  notes,  and  a  low,  wild,  poignant 
cry  throbbed  in  them  that  was  very  like  a  czardas  of 
Tzigany,  and  there  was  dancing  on  a  levelled  place,  and 
fires  kindled  in  dark  eyes.  The  young  men  decked  their 


194  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

black  hair  with  quills,  and  bared  their  breasts  and  arms, 
and  swung  into  a  rhythmic  step,  around  and  round,  sway- 
ing, twisting,  hopping,  and  moaning  lugubriously  to  the 
weird  plaint  of  the  music.  Before  the  chief's  house  old 
men  squatted  in  council,  nodding  or  scowling  at  the 
murder-laden  word  and  gesture  of  their  young  chief. 

Behind  this  council  of  old  men,  in  the  swept  door-way 
of  Coyote's  hut,  Krag  sat  on  a  bale  of  fagots.  He 
scraped  an  arrow  on  his  knee  with  a  bit  of  glass.  Now 
and  again,  when  a  voice  leaped  angrily  like  a  forked 
flame,  he  glanced  up  at  the  solemn  pow-pow.  He  was 
indulgent,  as  of  children,  and  these  children,  he  knew, 
were  game  for  their  play  at  death.  One  may  sit  and 
watch  the  sea  for  hours,  and  each  breaker  rolling  in  has 
its  own  grandeur,  and  each  time  the  spectator  holds  his 
breath  anew  as  the  wave  hurls  itself  into  spray  against  the 
eternal  rocks.  Futility  —  but  grandeur  nevertheless. 
So  Krag  sat  and  watched  his  Yaquis,  watched  a  sea  of 
passion.  For  the  sea's  vastness  there  were  centuries  of 
hatred.  Back  to  the  horizon  of  time  there  was  hatred. 
And  for  a  present  storm  lashing  the  waters,  there  was 
the  treachery  of  Cajemi's  death.  The  desolate  white 
man  never  wearied  of  that  fathomless  turbulence.  There 
was  a  something  in  it  akin  to  his  own  ebb  and  flow  of  life, 
for  neither  a  man  nor  a  people  may  beat  against  all  man- 
kind and  not  be  broken,  and  he  loved  the  sea  about  him 
because  it  tossed  and  broke  and  persevered  again  as  he 
was  tossed  and  broken  and  yet  persevered. 

There  was  a  woman  at  the  council  circle,  but,  like  Krag, 
not  of  it.  Krag  regarded  her  as  a  spiteful  tomboy, 
intruding  on  men-children's  own  pow-wow.  The  old  men 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  195 

had  grunted  their  disgust,  yet  let  her  stay.  A  Yaqui 
woman  is  a  warrior's  mate,  not  a  squaw  and  beast  of 
burden.  This  woman,  besides,  was  Cajemi  's  daughter,  and 
she  should  hear,  if  she  must,  how  the  tribe  avenged  its 
chiefs.  But  Dolores,  sitting  on  the  grass  with  her  bare  feet 
tucked  under  her,  lazily  fingered  her  guitar  and  crooned 
to  herself.  Sometimes  she  lifted  her  heavy,  lustrous 
eyes  and  gazed  up  sleepily  at  Krag,  quite  frankly,  quite 
insolently.  She  hah*  smiled  as  if  to  herself,  before  she 
looked  down  again.  Coyote  saw  well  enough  what  she 
was  doing,  or  trying  to  do,  but  Krag  went  on  fashioning 
his  arrow  and  was  unconcerned. 

The  old  men,  clothed  in  white  mania  or  torn  and 
bruised  leather,  sitting  cross-legged  on  their  serapes, 
more  like  meek  peons  than  red  Indians,  were  debat- 
ing a  matter  of  strategy.  They  debated  it,  although 
they  were  all  agreed  on  it  already.  Tetibite  himself 
had  brought  word  that,  with  the  clearing  of  the  skies, 
gangs  of  labourers  were  again  at  work  laying  iron  rails 
from  the  Great  Stack  across  the  desert  to  the  Bar- 
ranca Quebrante.  A  train  load  of  peons  had  made  camp 
on  the  sand  at  the  end  of  the  track,  and  soldiers  with 
carbines  guarded  them.  Soon  the  iron  road  would  reach 
to  the  Americano's  mine.  The  mine  was  the  mine  which 
the  Lone  Oak  had  found  before  he  came  to  the  Yaquis. 
The  Americano  was  the  father  of  the  Lone  Oak's  wife. 
It  was  the  Americano,  from  his  home  in  the  North,  who 
was  building  the  new  iron  road.  And  when  the  first 
cars  came  to  the  mine,  Mexican  soldiers  would  be  in 
the  cars.  Without  the  pain  and  danger  of  the  desert 
march,  the  soldiers  would  be  ready  for  battle.  Hence- 


196  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

forth  the  enemy  would  begin  where  usually  he  ended, 
at  the  very  threshold  of  the  Yaqui  sierra. 

To  this  strain  the  old  men  harangued :  their  young  chief 
should  swoop  down  upon  the  desert  camp  of  railroad 
builders  and  again  tear  up  the  iron  track.  The  matter 
was  going  to  a  vote,  when  Krag  broke  the  arrow  across 
his  knee,  kicked  back  the  bale  of  fagots,  and  stood  on  his 
feet. 

"Let  the  Americano  build  his  railroad,"  he  told  them 
sternly. 

The  old  men  stirred  as  if  a  lash  had  cracked  over  their 
shoulders.  The  effect  of  the  white  man 's  cool  dominance 
was  of  overriding  them  like  foolish  children.  They 
writhed  in  anger,  and  at  once  felt  the  more  humiliation 
because  of  their  anger.  Dolores's  fingers  faltered  over 
her  guitar,  and  she  drew  the  striped  rebosa  closer  around 
her  breast.  One  is  chilled  to  hear  a  man  speak  on  the 
quiet  air  words  that  invite  the  Yaqui  manner  of  death- 
giving.  She  bent  over  the  guitar  again,  waiting.  She 
did  not  know  if  she  wished  them  to  do  it,  nor  if  she  would 
try  to  stop  them.  Yet  there  was  something  voluptuous 
in  anticipation. 

The  sachems  questioned  one  another  with  their  eyes. 
Dignity  forbade  the  accents  of  wrath.  The  unspoken 
death  sentence  went  round  the  circle.  They  turned  to 
the  young  chief  in  mild  solemnity. 

Coyote  had  abated  nothing  of  his  haughty  apathy, 
and  yet  he  was  profoundly  astounded  at  Krag's 
risking  his  life  for  one  whom  he  hated,  as  Coyote 
knew  he  hated  his  wife's  father.  Coyote  knew  Krag's 
greed  hitherto  always  to  harass  the  building  of  the 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  197 

new  road,  and  thereby  ruin  that  man  whom  he  hated. 
The  Yaqui  searched  the  white  man 's  countenance  for  the 
meaning  of  his  sudden  and  perilous  change.  He  saw  the 
hard  features  in  repose,  yet  still  black  from  receding 
passion.  There  had  been  a  cruel  conflict  there,  of  will 
over  hatred,  and  the  will  was  rock.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  abhorrent  to  Krag  than  what  he  had  just 
asked.  But  he  had  asked  it.  Why?  In  a  flash  of 
revelation  Coyote  thought  he  knew  why. 

"If,"  said  the  young  chief  to  the  waiting  council, 
"the  Lone  Oak  would  betray  the  tribe  for  the  sake  of  the 
Americano's  road,  I but  wait.  Let  him  speak." 

Krag  did  not  speak.  He  had  the  air  of  regarding  the 
matter  as  settled;  as  though,  since  he  had  bidden  them 
do  a  thing,  they  would  do  it.  Nothing  could  be  more 
belittling  to  an  Indian's  self-esteem.  After  his  bitterly 
forced  word  for  the  man  Hacklette,  he  was  in  a  sullen 
humour  to  hurt  others.  None  could  do  it  more  pitilessly 
than  he  hi  his  pitying  contempt.  The  whim  being  gen- 
uine, he  did  not  hide  it.  He  no  more  hid  any  mood  that 
was  genuinely  himself. 

Such  was  no  longer  his  method.  It  was  not  his  method 
since  he  had  closed  old  Cajemi  's  eyes.  If  he  was  ever  to 
be  believed,  if  ever  trusted  —  and  have  the  guerdon  of 
trust  —  he  must  speak  to  men  nakedly.  Even  to  these 
children  of  the  wilderness  he  must  speak  from  himself, 
and  his  words,  looks,  acts,  had  to  be  himself,  and  not  a 
cloak.  For  no  fabric  was  heavy  enough,  although  woven 
of  hardship,  perils,  and  seeming  devotion,  to  hide  the 
twisting  of  the  soul  beneath  its  folds.  This  was  a  truth 
that  he  had  learned  very  thoroughly.  After  two  years 


198  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

of  patient  weaving,  he  had  cast  the  cloak  from  him  over 
the  dead  chief's  clay. 

Thus  had  he  changed  his  method.  In  cold  calculation 
he  had  changed  it.  And  by  it  he  abided,  unflinching. 
If  evil  thoughts  came,  he  let  them  darken  his  brow.  For 
what  evil  there  was  in  him,  he  was  ready  to  take  the  con- 
sequences. The  Yaquis  should  trust  him  in  this  at  least, 
that  he  was  not  to  be  trusted.  Such  was  enough  for  a 
beginning. 

He  had  even  shaved  his  beard,  and  his  squared,  gaunt, 
harshly  aggressive  features  emerged,  so  that  the  Yaquis, 
magnificent  wolves  that  they  were,  winced  to  look  on  him, 
quite  as  gentle  Maisie  had  done.  Yet  he  held  to  his  new 
strategy,  though  they  destroyed  him.  He  no  longer 
pressed  out  the  furrows  of  a  scowl,  but  let  the  scowl 
come,  if  it  would.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  soul  in- 
stead. For  that  was  his  strategy,  too;  and  the  essence 
of  it.  They  saw  a  blackened  soul  now,  like  girders 
warped  in  an  inferno  of  heat.  But  some  day  they  should 
see  it  cleansed  and  upright;  and  they  would  trust  him 
wholly.  They  would  remember  their  years  of  gratitude, 
for  the  gratitude  should  become  affection,  and  as  naturally 
as  a  child  bares  a  treasured  hurt  finger  to  its  mother's 
gaze,  they  would  bring  him  the  secrets  of  the  tribe. 

Almost  as  hardily  found  as  the  Holy  Grail,  and  by 
purity  likewise,  would  be  those  secrets  of  the  Yaquis.  The 
Spaniards,  the  Mexicans,  and  the  Americans  had  made  it 
clear  that  the  secrets  were  the  tribe 's  life.  To  part  with 
them  was  to  perish.  They  were  pregnant  with  fabulous 
wealth;  but  no  Yaqui  chief,  naked,  hungry,  lacking  even 
gunpowder,  would  lay  a  pick  to  the  treasure,  lest  he  reveal 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  199 

it  and  white  men  flood  his  sierra,  paying  armies  from  the 
bonanza  hoards.  So  the  secrets  were  a  primal  instinct 
of  existence  itself,  and  the  stranger  who  won  them  must 
lift  mountainous  centuries  of  oppression.  He  must  lift 
a  distrust  of  the  weight  of  ancestral  slain.  This  Krag  had 
set  himself  to  do. 

His  reward  of  sainthood  once  harvested,  then  might 
he  return  to  evil,  as  the  lean  jackal  gorges  after  fasting. 
For  evil  was  the  motive  of  his  sainthood.  Let  him  but 
possess  the  true  Veta  Negra,  overcoming  money's  handi- 
cap of  man  over  man,  and  out  in  a  world  of  rapine  he 
would  justify  his  right  to  live.  He  would  prove  it  on  the 
man  who  first  goaded  him  with  wealth 's  disdainful  sneer 
at  simple  manhood,  and  crush  that  man  utterly. 

Krag  had  brooded  for  years  on  a  very  few  things  only, 
and  that  is  dangerous;  on  his  boyhood,  among  others. 
The  man  lacks  woefully,  and  is  less  a  man,  who  is  not 
startled  at  times  into  revering  his  boyhood  as  a  thing 
apart  from  himself,  and  somehow  better.  He  recalls  an 
awkward  being  mostly  hands  and  feet  and  heart,  whose 
wondrous  purity  vaguely  troubles  his  later  worldly  poise. 
Krag's  story  had  begun  in  that  way,  promising  as  sweet 
a  story  as  happens;  as  precious  as  the  enthusiasms  of 
youth  and  youth's  eager  courage.  Furthermore  the 
grown  man  will  hate,  if  he  hates  meanness,  the  creature 
or  circumstance  that  first  bruised  the  boy's  trust  and 
opened  his  eyes  on  men  and  made  even  of  him  a  man. 
Krag's  danger  was  that  he  had  brooded.  The  sap  that 
might  have  been  human  kindness  left  him,  and  he  turned 
to  stone.  He  charged  Hacklette  with  his  lost  boyhood. 
And  it  was  Hacklette  again,  not  the  bitterness  in  his 


300  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

own  soul,  whom  he  charged  with  a  lost  wife.  Hacklette 
always,  who  kept  him  from  perfect  union  with  the  one 
being  he  loved,  and  therefore  with  the  world,  and  left 
him  half  a  man,  miserably  doomed  to  live  half  a  life. 

And  yet,  facing  torture,  he  stood  between  Hacklette 's 
property  and  Indian  destroyers.  The  reason  was  diabolic 
in  its  simplicity.  He  was  merely  playing  his  system,  as 
he  inwardly  and  sardonically  described  it.  The  new  strat- 
egy did  not  admit  of  vengeful  thoughts.  For  an  hour's 
tedious  length  he  could  forget  Hacklette,  and  when  Hack- 
lette stalked  forth  unbidden,  Krag  thrust  him  back, 
turning  grimly  to  thoughts  and  deeds  that  were  good. 
Though  it  killed  him,  he  cultivated  a  saintly  habit  of  the 
soul. 

Krag's  indifference  to  the  call  to  speak  incensed  the 
Yaqui  elders.  One  lifted  his  arm,  opened  his  mouth  to 
summon  the  nearest  dancing  warriors.  The  guitar  was 
silenced,  and  Dolores  looked  at  Coyote.  The  young 
chief  was  on  his  feet. 

"No,"  he  cried,   lithe  and   ready.     "7  will  speak." 

An  elder  grumbled,  but  all  were  grave  and  anxious. 
It  seemed  that  their  young  chief  was  on  trial  as  well. 
Dolores  crooned  low  over  her  guitar. 

"I  do  not  speak  for  the  Lone  Oak,"  said  Coyote  in 
a  hushed  voice,  as  when  falling  water  is  heard  from  a  long 
way.  "The  acts  of  the  Lone  Oak  have  been  good  friends 
to  our  people.  Yet,  is  he  our  good  friend?  We  cannot 
know.  I  do  not  speak  for  him." 

He  paused,  forgetting  the  earnestness  of  words  meant 
alone  for  the  welfare  of  his  tribe.  His  eyes  had  met 
Krag's,  and  in  them  came  the  old  gleam,  chafing  against 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  201 

his  savage's  affection  for  the  man.  Something  had  always 
stayed  his  hand  before,  even  while  it  goaded  him  to  strike. 
But  this  time  he  held  no  knife.  The  knife  was  in  other 
hands.  He  had  only  to  stand  aside.  Yet  he  turned,  so 
as  to  keep  the  white  man's  maddening  sneer  from  his 
sight. 

"I  speak,"  he  said,  "for  one  who  did  what  was  good 
because  it  was  good.  I,  Tetibite,  saved  to  be  your  chief, 
was  caught  in  hiding,  where  I  had  crawled  like  a  wounded 
snake  on  my  belly  to  die,  and  was  dragged  in  my  blood, 
and  kicked,  and  prodded  as  an  ox  with  bayonet  points, 
when  this  one  saw  and  hurried  a  man  to  my  enemies  and 
made  them  stop,  and  they  brought  me  to  her.  She  spread 
blankets  where  they  laid  me.  She  put  water  to  my  lips, 
and  when  the  Lone  Oak  rose  out  of  the  earth  she  helped 
him  with  trembling  hands  and  pitying  eyes  while  he 
bathed  my  wound.  That  was  good,  because  she  was 
good.  She  asked  nothing.  There  was  naught  to  ask,  to 
hope  for,  from  a  dying  wild  animal.  But  the  animal  who 
was  dying,  Tetibite  the  chief,  stands  here  now  to  give 
her  his  life,  unless  you  let  him  give  her  something  of 
better  use,  which  is  bread  to  her  mouth  and  the  warmth 
of  wood  fires  in  the  cold  country  where  she  dwells." 

He  contemplated  them  proudly  for  a  space,  and  they 
noted  that  his  rifle  lay  on  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"The  Lone  Oak,"  he  went  on,  "is  a  man.  He  does 
not  save  himself  behind  a  woman.  You  will  wait,  then, 
a  long  time  for  him  to  speak.  He  must  have  heard,  as 
I  heard  men  say  at  the  Great  Stack,  that  the  woman's 
father  pours  all  his  money  into  the  railroad  building,  and 
he  takes  at  last  from  the  woman  the  money  that  the 


202  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Lone  Oak  left  her  for  bread  and  wood,  for  her  and  her 
little  child  "  —  Coyote  could  not  see  the  darkening  of  the 
face  behind  him,  and  the  astonishment  on  it  —  "so," 
he  said,  "that  the  man  may  build  his  railroad,  and  come 
to  his  mine  of  silver,  and  pay  back  to  the  woman  what  he 
has  taken,  for  this,  and  not  to  betray,  does  the  Lone  Oak 
say  to  us:  'Leave  the  man's  railroad  in  peace.'  .  .  . 
And  now  Tetibite,  chief  of  the  tribe,  which  is  great  chief, 
says  this  also:  'Leave  the  man's  road  in  peace !": 

Dolores  struck  her  guitar  sharply,  and  the  notes  burst 
in  riotous  accord  with  the  music  of  the  dancers,  and  her 
voice  rose,  rich  and  cloying  and  madly  defiant,  on  the 
wild  strain. 

The  old  men  frowned.  Coyote  snatched  the  guitar 
from  her. 

"Fools,"  she  laughed.  "You  listen  to  Tetibite?  .  .  . 
Hunh,  so  there  is  a  woman!  .  .  .  And  the  Lone  Oak. 
.  .  .  Pig,  give  back  my  guitar !" 

"Take  her  away,"  said  the  elder  of  the  village  wearily. 

"And  you  will  not!"  She  showed  her  teeth.  "You 
will  listen  to  Cajemi's  daughter,  for  Cajemi's  daughter 
has  much  to  tell.  That  iron  road,  when  it  comes  into  the 
barranca  " 

"True,"  Krag  interposed  quietly,  "the  railroad  will 

bring  soldiers  into  the  barranca,  if but  let  my 

Coyote  tell  you " 

"Ay,"  greedily  cried  Coyote,  "I  will  tell  you  that  the 
trains  with  soldiers  must  cross  the  desert,  and  if  in  a  night 
we  cannot  dig  the  sand  from  under  a  rail " 

"Ay,  indeed,"  grumbled  an  elder  from  the  gloomy 
Mesquite  Forest,  "but  we  aged  ones  with  few  years  left, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  203 

we  think  of  the  years.  Our  young  men  cannot  forever 
lie  in  wait  with  shovels  for  trains  of  soldiers." 

"For  one  year  only  they  will  need  to,"  said  Krag, 
"and  in  the  cries  and  screechings,  the  hissing  of  steam, 
the  burning  of  splintered  wrecks,  they  can  shoot  their 
Mexicans  by  hundreds.  That,"  he  said,  his  mouth 
drawing  to  its  ugly  smile,  "is  honourable  warfare.  I 
will  give  the  young  men  safe  counsel  in  it." 

"Still  you  forget,"  protested  the  forest  philosopher, 
"the  years  afterward,  when  this  war  is  a  man-hunt,  and 
we  have  few  warriors " 

"In  one  year,"  said  Krag,  "there  will  be  no  railroad, 
unless  the  tribe  itself  desires  the  railroad.  In  one  year 
the  man  —  the  Americano  —  will  dig  enough  silver  to 
pay  back  to  —  to  pay  back  what  he  has  stolen.  But 
he  will  come  also  to  an  end  of  the  silver.  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  know,  which  the  man  does  not.  The  vein  of 
silver  bends.  It  opens  on  the  face  of  the  barranca.  You 
can  prove  that  for  yourselves.  So,  when  there  is  no  more 
silver,  go  and  tear  up  the  track  and  take  back  your  desert 
for  your  own." 

For  a  little  there  was  silence.  The  old  men  sat  dream- 
ily hi  the  sunshine,  squinting  at  the  black  peaks,  or  gazed 
unseeing  at  the  sleek,  romping  children.  One  took  off 
his  sombrero,  found  in  its  crown  a  cigarette  and  matches. 
While  he  rolled  the  loose  paper  over  again,  a  goat  thrust 
her  nose  into  his  fingers,  and  he  slapped  her  away.  The 
elder  of  San  Marcial,  from  the  Rio  Matape,  was  moved 
to  speak. 

"Our  answer,"  said  he,  "unless  one  of  us  raises  his 
voice  to  say  no,  is  as  I  tell  you  now.  The  man,  the  Amer- 


304  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

icano,  shall  build  his  iron  road  in  peace,  because  of  a 
woman's  pity  for  a  Yaqui.  That  is  all." 

Each  ancient,  shaggy  head  gravely  nodded,  but 
as  the  nods  went  round,  Dolores  the  girl  was  up, 
crying: 

"Fools  and  soft  hearts,  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  sol- 
diers who  will  come,  but  of  a  solitary  white  man  and  his 
burro,  of  yet  another  solitary  white  man  and  his  burro, 
of  another,  and  another,  and  another,  until  one  of  them 
shall  pick  up  the  rock  he  seeks.  Then,  soon,  here  in 
the  heart  of  our  sierra,  there  is  a  white  man 's  settlement 
of  the  Americanos  who  do  not  tremble  for  war  cries  and 
bullets,  and  at  the  last  the  Yaquis  must  move  again  deeper 
into  the  West.  And  what  is  there  deeper  in  the  West  that 
is  left  us?  Fools,  it  is  the  sea!  —  No,  no,  you  see  my 
tongue  is  loosened.  I  will  not  stop  —  So  the  railroad  comes 
off  the  desert  into  the  barranca  ?  But  it  must  not  come. 
I  cannot  tell  you  all,  yet  you  shall  judge.  Cajemi  's  daugh- 
ter says  it  must  not.  She  says  it  must  not,  because  she 
knows  the  secrets  of  the  tribe  that  you  think  died  with 
Cajemi.  She  knows  them,  and  they  give  her  right  in 
your  councils.  She  knows  where  the  lost  mines  lie  cov- 
ered, and  she  says:  'Beware  the  white  man  and  his  iron 
road  that  would  enter  that  barranca.'  Hunk,  because 
Tetibite's  heart  whimpers  for  a  woman,  because  also  the 
Lone  Oak's " 

Coyote  laughed,  jeering.  "S-s-s,  I  was  wondering, 
but  it  is  a  woman  in  her  head,  not  secrets.  The  secrets, 
if  she  has  them,  are  the  chief's  to  keep.  Let  her  give 
them  to  me,  and  I  will  say  if  these  secrets  forbid  the  road." 

An  elder  made  noises  in  his  throat.      It  was  near  to 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  20,5 

chuckling.  "Cajemi  lets  a  girl  pick  the  tribe's  secrets 
from  that  hard  skull!"  The  words  were  echoed,  for  to 
think  her  only  boasting  was  relief. 

"It  is  not  well  for  secrets  to  be  with  a  woman,"  another 
soberly  declared.  "What  Cajemi 's  daughter  knows,  she 
must  whisper  in  the  chief's  ear." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  until  the  blue-black  hair  fell 
from  her  shoulders  and  hung  like  a  lustrous,  breeze- 
blown  arras  before  her  face.  She  pretended  that  not 
for  life  would  she  let  them  see  her  mock  them.  The 
bewildered  old  men  regarded  her  helplessly.  Derision 
quivered  yet  on  her  lips  when  she  looked  up,  brushing 
back  her  hair. 

"So,"  she  said,  the  words  gurgling  in  rich  thickness, 
"then  would  I  forget  secrets  with  whispering  them? 
La-Za,  lu-/a,  but  our  tribal  fathers  step  where  the  mire  is 
deep.  Poor  gray  heads,  rest  easy."  Abruptly  she  shot 
a  look,  languorous  and  wanton,  at  Krag.  "Rest  easy, 
for  those  secrets  I  shall  keep  for  the  man  I  take  to  myself. 
A  woman  wishes  to  be  desired,  my  fathers." 

More  than  one  fatuous  old  man  brightened.  "Take 
Tetibite  then." 

She  remembered  Tetibite 's  jeering,  and  now  she  jeered 
at  him. 

"No,"  scornfully  retorted  the  young  Yaqui.  "for 
I  should  only  learn  that  she  has  no  secrets.  Ancient 
men,  whose  blood  has  cooled,  I  tell  you  it  is  a  woman 
in  her  head.  Look,  the  warriors  have  danced  themselves 
hot.  It  is  time  to  take  the  trail." 

The  elders  rose  on  stiffening  legs,  grunting  and  glad 
of  release.  "Go,  Tetibite,"  they  said. 


206  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Cajemi's  daughter,"  added  the  village  elder,  "we 
shall  keep  her  for  you,  her  and  her  secrets." 

Dolores  lingered  as  they  went.  Krag  rose  and  turned 
toward  his  hut.  The  tread  of  her  bare  feet  was  soft, 
and  he  did  not  hear  her  until  she  spoke  at  his  shoulder. 
"Lone  Oak,"  she  whispered,  "are  you  thinking  of  the 
woman?" 

Krag  turned,  and  saying  never  a  word,  he  took  her 
nose  between  his  fingers  and  wrenched  it  deliberately. 
This  was  according  to  the  new  strategy. 


THE  little  brown  Mexican  soldier,  in  his  glazed 
fighting  cap,  dingy  uniform,  and  sandals,  can 
live  on  maguey  and  the  dew.     But  where  a 
torrid  sun  sucks  the  maguey  dry,  where  the  dew  is  quaffed 
off  by  desert  sands,  who  lives?     The  Yaqui  lives,  who  is 
himself  sand,  and  slips  through  the  fingers. 

This  was  the  superstition  of  the  clumsy,  stolid,  little 
brown  man  concerning  his  enemy.  But  superstition  is 
exaggeration.  The  Yaqui 's  capacity  for  the  pain  of 
endurance  was  greater,  that  was  all.  It  merely  took  him 
longer  to  recognize  the  perishing  state  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Even  then,  his  grief  was  not  for  the  lack  of  what  one  may 
eat,  but  for  the  lack  of  what  may  kill.  Gunpowder! 
Little  pellets  of  lead!  Even  the  savage  in  his  warfare 
must  have  the  sinews  of  war.  This  is  one  handicap  from 
civilization  that  he  may  not  evade. 

In  the  score  and  ten  months  since  Cajemi's  death,  all 
bone  and  muscle  and  wit  of  the  tribe  went  into  fighting, 
so  that  none  was  spared  for  wage-earning  in  towns  and 
mining  camps.  Even  the  pacificos  could  not  be  spared, 
not  when  women  themselves  turned  warriors  and  led  the 
hunted  life  hi  cactus  and  swamp.  The  very  children 
frowned  on  bread,  and  starved  to  buy  ammunition. 

207 


208  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Game  fled  the  Yaqui  retreats.  The  Mexicans,  travelling 
their  new  military  road  over  the  old  trail,  destroyed  what 
growing  crops  they  found.  The  Yaquis  made  cakes  of 
crushed  roots  and  rush  and  straw  and  wild  grasses.  But 
the  time  came  when,  though  women  toiled  at  their  weav- 
ing and  old  men  at  the  potter's  wheel,  there  was  little 
money.  The  earnings  of  fifty  years  were  spent  on  war, 
all  that  the  Yaquis  had  made  by  labour,  by  their  herds  and 
fields  of  grain,  or  by  their  mines,  in  the  days  when  they 
had  their  valley  and  homes  and  peace.  Cajemi's  old 
custom-house  at  the  Rio  Yaqui 's  mouth,  where  like  a 
baron  of  the  Rhine  he  forced  toll  from  every  river  craft, 
was  lost  long  since  to  the  Mexicans.  Neither  could  they 
pan  gold  from  the  sands  of  the  river 's  bank,  as  they  used 
to  do,  each  man  weighing  himself  out  fair  wages,  because 
here  also  were  the  Mexicans  encamped. 

Consequently  the  Yaqui  raids  became  fewer,  until  only 
the  nearest  settlements  were  menaced.  Yet  this  was  not 
because  the  Yaquis  were  fewer,  because  few  were  killed, 
and  rarely  was  one  captured.  Nor  was  it  because  they 
were  less  eager,  or  less  daring.  It  was  solely  because 
they  lacked  the  instruments  of  massacre. 

Krag  had  long  pondered  the  situation.  The  tribe,  it 
seemed  to  him,  was  in  its  last  home,  the  sierras  and 
swamps.  And  that  home  seemed  only  transitory,  to 
give  way  soon  to  slave-ships  and  slavery  in  Yucatan. 
Something  in  Krag  rebelled  fiercely  against  that  impend- 
ing fate  of  a  noble  savagery,  and  his  mind  never  rested 
from  plotting  a  counter-fate,  a  remedy,  the  tribe's  life. 
Yet,  while  he  plotted,  he  was  certain  that  he  was  only 
plotting  the  success  of  his  own  resolute  and  selfish  purposes. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  209 

"  My  Coyote,"  he  spoke  one  day  when  things  looked 
most  desperate,  "some  kinds  of  ore  are  ground,  others 
melted,  and  the  silver  taken  out,  as  simply  as  women 
grind  corn  into  tortilla  paste  or  melt  lard  from  the  pork. 
It  can  be  done  in  a  cave,  and  there  are  caves  that  no 
Mexican  would  ever  find.  Or,"  he  went  on,  anxiety 
deepening  the  furrows  between  his  eyes,  "if  the  ore  is 
very  rich,  it  can  be  smuggled  a  sack  at  a  time  into  Guay- 
mas,  where  those  shifty  ore  pirates,  the  rescatadores,  will 
pay  rifles  and  corn  for  it,  and  keep  the  barter  a  secret. 
There,  I  know  of  no  other  way.  If  you  would  save  your 
tribe,  my  Coyote,  you  must  work  the  hidden  mines.  If 
you  do  not,  the  Yaquis  will  be  driven  like  peons  where 
these  names  can  never  help  them.  So  bring  me  pieces 
of  ore  from  each,  and  I  will  tell  you  which  mine  to 
uncover." 

Coyote  glumly  shook  his  head.  The  young  Yaqui  had 
broadened,  was  quieter,  statelier.  Thirty  months  of 
chieftanship  had  sobered  the  lean  runner,  had  stiffened 
the  supple  play  of  muscles.  The  cheeks  were  sunken,  the 
neck  was  laced  in  stringy  smews,  the  chest  was  a  wall  of 
bone.  There  were  scars  on  him,  and  one  was  yet  raw. 
The  cold  glitter  of  his  eyes  was  now  of  famishing.  He  was 
grave  and  haggard.  "  If  I  only  could ! "  he  sighed  heavily. 

Krag,  regarding  him  under  thick  brows,  knew  a  pang, 
a  something  that  cut  oddly  and  deep.  It  was  like  the 
pang  of  one  who  sees  a  pet  grow  old,  losing  its  beauty  of 
line  and  fire  of  spirit.  "My  Coyote,"  he  said,  "you 
must." 

The  Indian's  teeth  flashed  impatience.  "You  know 
Cajemi  is  dead.  He  took  the  secrets  with  him!" 


210  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"There  is  Dolores,"  said  Krag  quietly. 

A  strange  flush  darkened  the  coppery  cheeks. 

"Have  I  ever  lied  to  you,  Coyote?" 

Coyote  met  the  piercing  gray  eyes  without  flinching. 
He  rnet  them  eagerly,  even,  because  of  a  serene  strength 
that  had  come  to  be  in  them.  The  squared  face  of  the 
white  man  was  gaunt,  and  there  was  a  bullet's  furrow 
across  one  temple.  The  great  shoulders,  the  body  in 
its  heavy  breadth,  these  also  were  gaunt.  Lines  of  suf- 
fering, or  of  struggle,  had  mellowed  the  hard  features. 
Suffering  and  struggle  had  broken  the  cool  poise  that  was 
once  a  sneer.  The  Yaqui  thought  the  white  man's  suf- 
fering to  be  hunger.  The  savage  knew  nothing  of  loneli- 
ness. But  he  knew,  without  looking  at  the  worn  laced 
boots,  the  tattered  khaki,  the  ragged  woollen  shirt,  what 
hardship  it  had  cost  to  follow  the  trail  that  no  wounded 
warrior  might  be  wasted.  He  knew  that  the  surgeon,  when 
the  mood  came,  cursed,  and  cursed  honestly,  cursing  the 
wounded  under  his  hand  for  recklessness,  once  cursing 
even  him,  Tetibite  the  chief,  for  shooting  down  three 
sullen  braves  who  had  misbehaved  in  battle.  The 
Lone  Oak  hid  no  feelings,  unless  they  were  kindly  ones. 
The  kindly  ones  he  often  suppressed,  thinking  them 
fraudulent. 

"The  liar,"  said  Coyote,  "is  Dolores.  My  father  is 
only  mistaken." 

"I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  Krag.  "Dolores  has  the 
secrets.  Marry  her,  my  Coyote.  She  said  that  she 
will  give  them  to  the  man  she  takes." 

The  blood  reddened  in  the  Yaqui 's  high  cheek-bones. 
"I  did  take  her  —  or  she  me" — his  lip  lifted  from  his 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  211 

teeth.  He  said  it  in  one  poisonous  breath.  "No,  she 
has  no  secrets." 

He  would  tell  little  more,  but  Krag  saw  it  all  vividly, 
as  red  blood  in  young  veins  is  vivid.  After  the  war 
fiesta  and  pow-pow  thirty  months  before,  Dolores  had 
followed  the  warriors  down  the  trail.  Touched  by  licking 
fires,  she  had  whispered  to  the  white  man,  and  he  had 
taken  her  nose  between  his  fingers.  He  was  lustful,  this 
superb  animal  of  a  white  man;  she  sensed  it,  and  it  drew 
her.  But  she  sensed  the  animal  only,  and  divined  nothing 
of  desire  for  but  the  one  woman.  Then  instinctively 
she  had  turned  to  her  own  kind,  to  one  like  her  who 
throbbed  with  the  nettling  greed  of  fulfillment,  and  she 
followed  the  warriors  on  the  first  march  of  their  raid,  and 
that  night  when  they  lay  scattered  in  their  blankets, 
she  crept  to  the  young  chief.  But  never  was  the  white 
man,  and  his  scorn  of  her,  out  of  her  mind. 

"But  for  more  than  two  years  no  one  has  seen  her," 
said  Krag. 

" Have  /  then?  "  retorted  Coyote.  "  See,  has  she  woven 
a  new  serape  for  me?"  Wofully  he  held  out  his  once 
white  blanket,  worn  thin  even  to  ravelling.  "Or  does 
she  follow  me  to  the  hunt?  Yet,  being  mad  as  she  made 
me  for  her  that  night,  I  said:  'We  will  go  before  the 
tribe,  and  have  the  marriage  feasting,'  and  I  handed  her 
my  loaded  rifle,  to  fire  in  air,  as  I  would  do  for  her.  It 
is  the  wedding  bond,  the  right  of  death  over  one  who  is 
faithless.  But  she  called  me  'pig,'  the  slut,  and  laughed, 
gurgling  in  her  throat,  while  her  lips  were  on  my  neck. 
Before  the  sun  rose,  she  was  gone.  Since  then  I  have 
not  seen  her.  She  is  an  outcast  from  the  tribe." 


312  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"  But  the  hidden  mines  ?    The  secrets  ? ' ' 

"She  laughed  again,  when  I  asked  her  for  them." 

"My  Coyote,"  said  Krag,  "go  and  find  her.     Listen, 

Cajemi  told  me  as  he  died  that  she  has  the  secrets.      Go 

then,  and  find  her." 

The  Yaqui  went,  grim  before  his  tribe's  necessities, 

but  promising  nothing. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

Ghostly  Wings 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Coyote  reappeared.  He 
came  back  alone  to  the  little  sierra  village  of 
Chihuitl,  and  went  straight  to  the  hut  of  the 
Lone  Oak.  The  desert's  white  powder  was  ground  into 
the  tawny  seams  of  his  neck,  and  clung  to  his  sandals  and 
rusty  leather  breeches  despite  the  bruising  of  mountain 
rock.  Either  anxiety  or  serious  enterprise  impending 
was  in  his  manner. 

Krag's  keen  eyes  noted  the  powdered  alkali  and  the 
Yaqui's  stress.  "The  boy  has  found  Dolores,"  he 
thought;  "found  her  in  the  desert  or  beyond."  The 
years  flooded  on  him  with  their  weight  of  triumph. 
"And  he  has  the  secrets!  He  has  them!" 

Coyote  wet  the  dried  froth  on  his  lips  with  the  tip  of 
his  tongue.  "I  come  for  you,"  he  said,  "and  you  will 
be  glad  to  come.  We  go  to  the  barranca  you  know  of." 

The  barranca!  That  was  the  key  word,  Cajemi's 
key  word  to  the  Veta  Negra,  and  confirmed  the  white 
man's  hope.  For  Coyote  meant  the  Barranca  Quebrante, 
the  canon  where  Hacklette's  railroad  crawled  off  the 
desert  into  the  sierra,  where  Krag  had  staked  the 
spurious  Veta  Negra  and  baited  it  with  ruin  for  Hacklette, 
where  the  real,  the  genuine,  the  fabulously  rich  Veta 

218 


214  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Negra  must  surely  be!  Krag  was  quite  satisfied  of 
that.  Old  Cajemi,  mumbling  his  last,  had  uttered  the 
word.  Then  Dolores,  exasperating  the  council  of  old 
men,  had  warned  them  to  let  no  railroad  come  into 
the  Barranca  Quebrante,  yet  would  not  tell  why. 

Since  then  Krag  had  scoured  that  definitely  located 
gorge  from  the  little  brook's  first  cascade  down  to  the 
wet  sand  on  the  desert's  margin.  With  all  his  prospec- 
tor's craft,  he  had  stealthily  explored  either  precipitous 
face  of  the  canon.  But  great  surfaces  of  those  towering 
walls  were  hidden  from  his  sight  when  he  was  in  the 
gorge  below,  and  inaccessible  from  the  perilous  ledges 
above.  He  decided  that  nature  herself  hid  the  treasure, 
as  if  in  mid-air.  He  trod  the  pebbles  below,  the  jagged 
rocks  above  that  treasure.  But  no  miserly  talons  might 
clutch  it. 

Now,  he  reflected,  Coyote  had  come  from  Dolores. 
For  the  tribe's  sake  Dolores  had  told  him  where  to 
find  the  Veta  Negra.  And  as  the  Veta  Negra  was  in  that 
barranca,  Coyote  had  come  for  him  to  go  to  that  barranca. 
Coyote  needed  him,  the  skilled  white  man,  to  bring  out  the 
ore  secretly,  to  prepare  for  its  smuggling  to  the  samplers 
in  Guaymas;  in  a  word,  to  work  out  the  tortuous  alchemy 
whereby  the  tribe  might  convert  silver  into  death. 

So  the  years  had  brought  their  triumph  in  one  tumul- 
tuous flood !  He  had  procured  wisely  that  Coyote  should 
be  chosen  chief,  since  to  the  chief  must  fall  the  tribe's 
dazzling  secrets.  And  though  they  had  fallen  instead 
to  a  stubborn  girl,  yet  had  he  overleapt  even  this  obstacle. 
He  needed  but  to  go  with  his  Vale  Coyote  —  whom  he 
had  rescued  from  death  five  years  before  for  precisely 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  215 

such  a  purpose  —  and  lay  his  hands  on  the  Black  Vein's 
unthinkable  bonanza.  To  make  it  his  own,  afterward 
—  that  were  the  simplest  exercise  in  the  manual  of 
villainy. 

His  mule,  the  tough  little  beast  he  rode  now,  was 
brought  him  from  the  village  corral  by  the  "doctor's 
assistant,"  a  dozen-year-old  incipient  Yaqui  warrior 
of  globular  belly  and  protuberant  ribs  The  child  buckled 
on  Krag's  spurs,  watched  him  mount,  was  watching  his 
jog-trot  departure  in  Chief  Tetibite's  wake,  when  he 
burst  forth  hallooing  and  came  running  after. 

"There  is  an  old  woman,"  he  panted.  "She  is  an  old, 
old  woman.  She  is  a  curandera" 

Krag  bent  a  tuft  of  the  lad's  stiff  black  hair  in  his 
fingers.  "Well?" 

"She  wishes  to  speak  with  the  Lone  Oak.  She  is  a 
Pinto  woman,  surely." 

Krag  frowned.  He  resented  a  minute's  delay,  after 
five  years'  delaying.  But  the  last  three  of  those  years 
had  fastened  a  habit  of  the  soul  on  him.  The  wish  of  any 
fellow  creature  was  become  matter  for  consideration. 
"Bring  her,"  he  said,  with  a  serenity  that  was  near  to 
benevolence.  Nor  was  there  hint  of  struggle.  That 
fight  had  been  fought  out  long  since.  The  composure 
of  the  man  was  the  calm  empire  of  mastery.  "Bring 
her  quickly,"  and  he  gave  the  hair  a  twisting  reminder. 

"She  came  riding  on  a  burro."  said  the  boy,  unafraid. 
"It  is  an  old,  old  burro."  He  scampered  off  to  the  hut 
of  the  village  elder,  where  a  toothless  and  foolishly  grin- 
ning beldame  had  come  inquiring  for  the  Lone  Oak. 
She  was  a  Pinto.  There  were  tattooed  smears  on  face, 


S16  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

breast,  and  arms,  creased  by  leathery  wrinkles.  She 
was  also  a  medicine  woman,  a  curandera.  A  round  green 
leaf  was  plastered  on  each  withered  temple.  Her  eyes 
were  bleared  from  the  smudge  of  brewing  herbs. 

The  Yaqui  youngster  herded  her  forward.  "Take 
care,  I  think  she  is  a  bruja,"  he  cried;  and  witch,  she 
doubtless  thought  herself. 

"Well,  what?"  demanded  Krag,  for  she  only  looked 
up  at  him  with  her  toothless,  foolish  grin. 

She  held  up  her  hands;  talons,  rather,  with  crooked 
claws.  "Blisters, "she  said  indignantly,  in  cracked  accents, 
"you  see  them?  They  are  blisters." 

"Well,  well?" 

"They  are  from  sweeping,  sweeping,  and  my  broom 
sheds  its  straw  like  a  scalded  goose.  And  I  weep,  and 
moan,  and  wail,  yet  —  yet  not  a  devil  of  the  calentura 
stirs."  She  cocked  her  frowsy  head,  and  leered  at  Krag 
in  professional  gravity.  "Not  a  devil,  remember,  leaves 
the  body  of  the  possessed  one  —  oo-ee,  oo-ee,  is  it  not 
then  the  hour  to  die?" 

"Is  this  a  consultation?"  Krag  asked  soberly. 

The  hag  grinned,  not  understanding.  "The  woman," 
she  chattered  on,  "put  her  hands  to  her  ears.  She  cursed 
my  wailing  at  devils.  'The  Lone  Oak!  Go  to  the  Lone 
Oak!'  the  woman  said,  and  with  her  nails  she  tried  to 
scoop  forth  my  eyes.  Art  thou  the  Lone  Oak?  Oo-ee, 
what  can  it  matter?  The  child  must  die,  since  not  a 
devil " 

"The  child?"  Krag  demanded  sharply. 

"Eh?    The  woman's  child." 

"What  woman?" 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  217 

"A  woman.  The  daft  woman,  for  she  cursed  my 
wailing.  The  lone  woman,  who  lives  in  our  village." 

"Take  me  to  her,"  said  Krag,  as  by  rote,  by  habit. 
' '  Wait !  Where  is  your  village  ? ' ' 

"Nay,  do  not  come,  for  it  is  far,  and  the  child  will  be 
dead,  since  no  root,  no  bark  — 

"Shall  we  cut  out  thy  tongue?"  cried  Coyote.  "Now 
where  is  the  village?" 

"Far,  I  said.  And  hast  thou,  chief,  no  fear  whatever, 
of  an  evil  eye?  Far,  in  the  swamps  of  the  coast,  our 
men  are  pearl  divers,  and  they  think  less  of  sharks  than 
of  the  evil  eye." 

Toward  the  coast,  to  the  gulf?  That  was  westward. 
And  Coyote's  mission,  the  Veto,  Negra,  the  goal  of  five 
years'  waiting,  lay  to  the  south.  Yet  no  struggle  dis- 
torted Krag's  features.  His  expression  was  clouded, 
nothing  more.  He  turned  to  Coyote.  "You  will  not 
say  why  we  go  to  the  barranca.  But  tell  me,  is  it  life 
and  death  to  the  tribe  that  I  go  with  you?" 

"No." 

"Or  life  and  death  to  any  Yaqui?" 

"No,  my  father." 

"Then,"  said  Krag,  "you  will  have  to  go  alone." 

By  acts  like  this,  so  that  he  was  himself  in  them,  Krag 
had  laid  a  foundation  of  trust  day  by  day,  as  the  weeks 
and  months  dragged  past.  And  he  could  not  risk  the 
structure  now  by  turning  his  back  on  a  call  of  human 
suffering,  however  obscure  and  unpromising  the  call  might 
be.  He  could  not,  though  by  refusing  he  might  grasp 
the  object  itself  of  all  this  strategy  of  pity.  For  the  very 
reason  that  his  ambition  beckoned  on  the  one  hand,  he 


218  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

must  turn  to  suffering  on  the  other.  Such  his  remorseless 
policy  exacted,  to  waive  no  jot  of  it  even  to  compass  the 
purpose  of  it.  There  was  yet  another  article  of  the  com- 
pact. He  must  be  himself.  Therefore  he  gave  way 
to  his  reluctance. 

"Don't  think,   Coyote,"  he  muttered,   "that  I  want 
to  go.     But  there's  this  consolation,  to  find  the  brat 

already  cold  when  I  get  there.     At    least  I  hope " 

He  paused,  queerly  questioning  within  himself  if  this 
were  strictly  true.  The  doubt  disturbed  him  like  the 
rush  of  ghostly  wings.  Saying  no  more,  he  patted  the 
Yaqui  chief  on  the  back  in  farewell. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

The  Fairy  Tale  that  Was  Different 

DOWN  into  the  coast  country,  to  the  wet  brush 
country  lying  low  about  the  mouth  of  rivers, 
Krag  on  his  mule  followed  the  shrivelled  Pinto 
woman.  She  led  him  at  last  to  a  jungle  village  where  a 
scattering  of  huts,  of  thatch  and  plaited  mud-daubed  twigs, 
was  fairly  lost  in  the  rank  turmoil  of  vegetation.  Swamp 
and  lagoons  and  natural  moats,  filled  by  the  backing  of 
the  sea,  cut  off  the  desolate  clustered  abodes  from  the 
knowledge  of  mankind  outside.  Decaying  fish  burdened 
the  air,  and  water-fowl  made  noisy  the  dense  little  world. 
Naked  children  romped  in  puddles.  Women  squatted  be- 
fore their  huts,  twisting  reeds  into  matting.  The  men— 
fishermen,  pearl  divers,  smugglers  —  laboured  hip  deep  in 
fish  traps  or  strung  their  catch  in  the  sun.  They  jeered  at 
the  Pinto  medicine  woman,  seeing  she  had  brought  a  white 
doctor,  and  raked  her  professional  pride  sorely. 

"But  the  chiquito  is  dead?"  she  protested,  smirking  at 
the  first  ones  they  passed. 

"No,  no,"  they  shouted,  "he  is  still  warm,  still  burning 
with  fever,  the  chiquito"  and  she  smiled  foolishly  in  her 
chagrin,  whereat  they  jeered  again . 

"Oo-ee,"she  retorted,  lashing  her  burro,  "then  it's 
because  he's  a  tougher  breed  than  thou." 

219 


220  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Through  pools  of  water  the  burro  splashed,  the  mule 
behind,  and  they  came  to  a  hut  deep  in  the  tangled  vine. 
The  hag  called  out,  slipping  from  the  stuffed  sack  on  the 
burro  to  the  ground.  "Eh  fool,  he  is  here,  the  Lone  Oak. 
Now  give  me  the  pearls." 

A  coppery  arm  brushed  back  a  matting  that  closed  the 
doorless  entrance,  and  a  woman's  face  appeared.  A 
rebosa  wrapped  her  head  and  covered  her  mouth  and  nose. 
Great  wasted  eyes  shot  a  hungry  look  at  Krag.  Hastily 
she  tore  from  her  breast  a  strand  of  pearls,  and  thrust 
them  into  the  hag's  clutching  fingers. 

"Now  my  chief  will  live,"she  laughed  wildly.  "Come!" 
she  cried  to  Krag. 

A  tigress,  could  she  summon  aid  to  her  dying  cub, 
would  utter  the  cry  as  the  woman  did.  The  ferocity 
of  animal  mother-love  was  the  same. 

Krag  thought  he  remembered  the  strand  of  pearls. 
And  when  he  heard  the  voice,  rich  and  vibrant  still,  he 
knew  it  was  Dolores. 

"Coyote  —  Tetibite  —  did  not  find  you  then?"  he 
exclaimed. 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently.  The  male  animal 
,  was  forgotten.  "Come,"  she  urged,  her  eyes  suddenly 
dangerous.  In  Krag  himself  she  saw  only  a  medicine 
chest. 

He  stooped  to  pass  the  matting  and  fell  back.  The 
stench  within  was  ghastly.  The  mother  dreaded  each 
breath  of  air,  lest  it  chill  her  fevered  babe.  Krag  tore 
away  the  matting  with  a  sweep  of  the  hand,  and  in  almost 
the  same  gesture  he  caught  her  wrist  and  twisted 
free  the  knife  she  held. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  221 

"As  though  I  were  here  to  argue  methods,"  he 
grumbled. 

He  plunged  into  the  hut,  groped  toward  where  the 
pallet  would  be  at  the  back,  felt  the  touch  of  flesh  that 
burned  his  own,  and  gathered  into  his  arms  a  little  human 
form.  "Make  way  there!"  He  shouldered  the  mother 
from  the  door-way,  and  carried  the  child  past  her  into 
the  air.  He  stripped  it  of  covering,  and  wrapped  it  round 
in  his  own  clean  blankets. 

"Burn  every  rag,"  he  ordered.  "The  Yaquis  would 
be  ashamed  of  dirt  like  this.  Get  rid  of  that  filthy  witch. 
She  is  falling  asleep." 

Thus  he  changed  the  medicine,  holding  his  patient,  a 
tiny,  straight-limbed,  two-year-old  Yaqui  boy,  while  he 
browbeat  the  mother  into  helpful  obedience.  By  night- 
fall the  hut,  or  the  bare  shelter  that  was  left  of  it,  was 
fumigated,  scalded,  and  aired  as  clean  as  a  whistle. 

All  the  while  he  held  the  babe;  held  it  tenderly.  As  the 
tiny,  pink-red  morsel  stirred  in  its  far-away,  troubled 
region  of  fever,  as  he  felt  its  searing  breath  on  his  hand, 
cleansing  lungs  and  blood  of  poisons  that  had  stifled 
it,  he  knew  that  the  piteous  stress,  the  valiant  battle  of 
the  little  sufferer,  were  projected  into  a  tingling,  a  yearning, 
through  his  own  great  frame.  As  he  watched,  clasping 
the  soft  bundle,  and  thought  that  it  would  have  died 
that  night,  he  slowly  grew  aware  that  —  at  least  he 
doubted  if  he  were  not  glad  he  had  com*.  He  wondered 
—  yet  could  it  be? —  if  an  empty  habit  of  the  soul  were 
becoming  the  soul  itself,  inevitably  rebuilding  the  ethereal 
tissue,  filling  out  the  substance  to  the  shell,  until  there 
was  this  sensitive,  quivering  nothingness  in  him  that 


222  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

tingled  and  yearned  —  yes,  and  sorrowed  —  over  a  little 
life  that  he  might  save. 

"That  moss  dry  yet?"  he  questioned  gruffly.  He  was 
ill  at  ease  with  himself,  as  before  a  strange  master. 
Perhaps,  he  thought,  the  soul  is  touchy  machinery,  and 
mortal  fingers  were  rash  to  meddle  in  it.  "Quick,  then, 
Dolores,  and  we'll  make  him  his  new  bed." 

The  case  was  simple.  Understanding  eyes,  alert 
through  the  hours  of  danger  to  the  crisis,  and  a  lusty 
small  Yaqui  would  be  preserved  to  his  tribe.  There 
were  no  such  eyes  to  trust  except  Krag's  own.  He 
settled  himself  by  the  little  woodland  couch  beneath 
the  thatch  to  stand  the  watches  of  the  night.  Tempera- 
ture, breathing,  heart  beats,  semaphores  of  the  flesh 
in  distress,  he  read  as  plainly  as  rockets  at  midnight, 
and  heeded  them  according  to  the  varying  message. 
The  mother  was  crooning  over  her  babe,  sometimes  with 
her  guitar,  mumbling  phrases  in  its  ear  that  the  white 
man  could  not  catch.  The  accents  were  smothered  in 
wild,  jealous  mother-passion,  and  were  too  tense  for 
merely  a  lullaby.  Krag,  provoked  and  warned  by  the 
child's  tossing,  ordered  her  away  from  the  crib. 

"Besides,"  he  said,  "there  is  something  I  have  to  say 
to  you,  since  Coyote  did  not  find  you.  Make  me  first 
some  coffee,  the  blackest  you  can;  then  sit  there." 

He  had  not  slept  for  two  nights  in  coming,  and  when 
he  had  drunk,  he  made  her  sit  in  the  door-way  and  said : 

"Dolores,  do  you  know  that  soon  the  Yaquis  must 
begin  falling?  Like  flies  they  will  fall." 

In  the  darkness  her  shoulders  lifted,  and  she  half  flung 
out  an  arm.  He  knew  that  the  gesture  was  not  indiffer- 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  223 

ence.     It  was  poignant  despair  for  her  tribe,  a  gesture 
to  say  that  she  was  helpless.     "I  am  a  woman,"  she  said. 

"To  the  last  man,"  he  added. 

"But  let  them  wait,  and  I  will  give  them  a  chief. 
Oh," — she  started  up,  crying— -"he  does  not  breathe!" 

"He  is  breathing  quietly,  that  is  all;  go  back. —  But 
when  your  little  chief  here  grows  up,  he  will  be  a  chief 
without  a  tribe,  unless  —  you  save  his  tribe  for  him 
now." 

She  sank  listessly  in  the  door-way,  and  gazed  at  the 
dim  sheen  of  stars  on  the  wet  earth.  "I  know,"  she  said, 
"you  mean  the  secrets.  But  the  secrets  are  —  for  him." 
She  jerked  her  head  defiantly  toward  the  child.  "I 
keep  them  for  him.  Then  he  will  be  chief.  Then  the 
Yaquis  will  make  him  chief.  He  is  the  son  of  a  chief, 
he  is  the  grandson  of  a  chief,  he  is  an  outcast,  with  his 
mother.  Enough,  for  his  mother  will  see  him  chief  also, 
because  of  the  secrets.  And  you  ask  me  to  rob  him, 
my  little  chief!" 

"A  chief  without  a  tribe?" 

Again  she  shrugged  her  shoulders.      "Better  no  tribe 
than  one  that  Mexicans  can  conquer,"  she  said.      "I"- 
it  was  a  stifled  shriek  —  "do  not  hear  him  breathing!" 

In  pity  he  let  her  come,  to  satisfy  herself.  On  her 
knees  she  laid  her  cheek  to  the  babe's,  and  trembled  until 
she  felt  its  breath.  But  she  stayed  so,  and  soon  was 
crooning  as  before,  passionately,  jealously.  The  child 
stirred.  The  low  moan  of  its  troubled  breathing  rose 
feebly  again. 

Krag  needed  but  to  let  her  alone,  and  the  mother 
would  kill  her  child  by  morning.  If  the  child  lived, 


224  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  tribal  secrets  were  locked  in  the  mother's  breast  for 
twenty  years  or  longer.  Krag  could  not  wait  that  long. 
Twenty  years  would  bring  his  own  age  close  to  fifty. 
Very  likely  twenty  years  would  bring  Hacklette,  scath- 
less,  to  the  grave.  In  mercy,  then,  let  a  foolish  mother 
coddle  her  young!  Krag  remembered,  too,  the  tribe's 
dire  need  of  those  secrets. 

" Dolores,"  said  Krag  softly,  "  go  back  now  to  the  door." 
He  had  reflected,  quite  simply,  that  it  was  not  according 
to  the  new  strategy.  But,  while  bathing  the  child's 
hot  brow,  he  caught  himself  murmuring:  "You  poor 
little  son-of-a-gun,"  as  though  he  owed  him  something 
for  the  black  thought  of  a  moment  ago.  Cold  adept  in 
the  human  heart,  he  feared  he  had  been  imbibing  some- 
what "of  the  common  heart."  To  be  sure,  this  meddling 
with  one's  own  soul  was  risky  business.  In  such  phrasing 
he  might  think  flippantly,  but  he  discovered  that  he  was 
not  feeling  so.  That  self -trouble  of  his  was  swelling  to 
awe,  as  if,  to  pay  the  devil's  coin,  unwittingly  he  had  sold 
his  soul  to  Heaven.  He  wondered  about  it  as  he  sat 
there;  wondered  if  he  were  growing  aware  of  a  celestial 
foreclosure.  Then  he  came  back,  as  he  always  did,  to 
one  word,  one  vision,  one  sorrow.  "Maisie,"  he 
whispered. 

A  quaint  sputtering  of  baby  prattle  roused  him  to 
his  patient.  "How  now,"  he  murmured,  bending  over, 
"the  chief  awakes!  No?  Yes?  Else  he's  delirious." 

The  chief  was  somewhat  of  both.  His  urchin  mind  was 
not  solid  on  its  pins  as  yet,  or  like  a  dazed  old  raven 
was  trying  to  rehearse  a  speaking  part. 

"Oh,  well,  maybe  it's  not  very  important,"  said  Krag; 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KEAG  225 

"take  your  time.  Like  a  little  bit  o'  milk?  Well,  chief, 
howdy  to  you,  sir.  Now,  back  to  the  sandman  —  so!" 

But  the  doughty  warrior  would  not  back  to  the  sand- 
man. He  kept  on  struggling  to  the  front;  rather,  the 
dazed  old  crow  cawed  and  hopped  about  in  the  lean, 
copper  skull. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Krag,  "only  don't  wake  your 
mammy,"  and  Krag  dropped  again  into  his  desolate 
self-communion,  paying  small  heed  to  the  babbled  syl- 
lables picked  out  of  a  misty  brain  and  slipped  off  the 
tongue.  A  Yaqui  babe,  the  same  as  other  two-year-olds, 
likes  to  adventure  on  the  wonderful,  newly  found  region 
of  speech,  and  Krag  meant  to  let  him  talk  himself  back 
to  natural  slumber.  It  was  Yaqui  equivalent  for  a 
Mother  Goose  rhyme,  no  doubt,  that  the  chief  was 
trying  to  piece  together,  and  the  Guardian  Science  watch- 
ing over  him  smiled  at  a  phrase  now  and  then,  and  paid 
no  attention. 

Now  Dolores,  overcome  by  sleep  in  the  door-way  and 
snoring  voluptuously,  heard  the  faint  lisping  through 
her  own  clangour.  Instantly,  with  feline  lightness  of 
bare  feet,  she  was  at  the  crib  of  boughs  and  moss,  and 
bending  over  her  cub.  The  little  mouth  and  tiny  glis- 
tening teeth  she  covered  with  her  lips. 

"Here,"  Krag  interposed,  "he's  all  right,  Dolores. 
Let  him  go  to  sleep." 

She  flashed  him  a  wild  look  of  distrust,  and  held  the 
smothering  kiss. 

"Your  imp  is  all  right,  I  tell  you,"  Krag  insisted. 
" But  you'll  fret  him  into  danger.  Come!"  He  gripped 
her  shoulder,  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet.  Then  he  saw 


226 

that  she  had  laid  the  palm  of  one  hand  over  the  child's 
mouth.  It  was  then  that  he  began  to  suspect  this  latest 
maternal  ferocity.  He  took  her  by  the  arms,  and  firmly 
turned  her  from  the  crib.  Her  hand,  drawn  from  the 
child's  mouth,  released  a  feeble  torrent  of  baby  patter. 

"  .  .  .  ba  —  (then  a  desperate  burring  note) 
—  anca.  .  .  . " 

Krag's  ears  burned.  The  Spanish  word  barranca! 
It  was  a  lone,  inadvertent  foreigner  in  the  Yaqui  throng 
of  words.  It  was  unrelated,  friendless,  isolated.  He 
could  piece  it  in  nowhere.  But  inspiration  burst  on  him 
like  a  shattering  globe  of  fire.  Dolores  —  her  darken- 
ing suspicion  —  her  wild  anxiety?  So,  neither  could 
Dolores  wait  twenty  years.  Her  fierce  mother-passion 
must  anticipate  time.  In  yearning  fancy  she  would  give 
her  chief  his  birthright  at  once,  and  every  hour  live 
anew  the  joy  of  her  fervid  make-believe,  crooning  low, 
rapturously,  in  his  ear.  They  were  secrets  she  crooned, 
his  tribe's  fatal  secrets,  in  lieu  of  lullaby;  secrets  for 
which  human  bones  strewed  the  mountain  trails,  for  which 
a  nation  was  exterminating  a  race  of  men,  for  which 
the  good  physician  in  the  Indian  hut  was  a  good  physi- 
cian, for  which  he  was  cursed  and  desolate,  forsaken 
by  those  he  had  forsaken,  for  which,  like  the  rest,  he 
would  enter  hell;  and  secrets  that  were  a  cradle  song  in 
a  baby's  ear! 

"Some  more  of  this  will  soothe  him  to  sleep,"  Krag 
said  quietly,  giving  a  sedative.  He  no  longer  sought  to 
drive  her  back,  knowing  what  he  knew,  until  the  small 
warrior  head  drooped  over  on  one  cheek  and  the  eyes 
closed  and  the  tongue  was  still.  Then  Krag  sat  himself 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  227 

in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  hut  and  let  his  brain  have 
its  will. 

"Barranca"  was  an  alien  bit.  It  fitted  in  nowhere. 
The  rest  of  the  sectional  puzzle-picture  was  lost.  Krag 
marshalled  each  syllable  and  sound  that  he  could  recall 
of  the  infant  prattling.  They  made  only  gibberish, 
Mother-Goose  gibberish,  Yaqui  Mother-Goose  gibberish, 
a  baby's  Yaqui  Mother-Goose  gibberish  —  thus  he  went 
on  building  up  to  nothing,  and  building  up  again.  But 
he  did  not  stop,  give  up.  He  kept  on.  It  was  a  habit 
of  his  loneliness.  Hours  and  hours,  and  another  time, 
other  hours,  he  had  lived  through  by  trying  to  fancy,  for 
instance,  a  universe  of  four  dimensions.  "  No  two  straight 
lines  are  equal,"  he  said,  and  imagined  a  geometry. 
"Man  bartered  memory  for  foresight,"  he  said,  and  reared 
a  philosophy.  He  pulled  a  snail  from  its  house,  and  built 
a  new  cosmos  for  it.  He  annihilated  a  grain  of  sand,  and 
relocated  the  solar  system.  He  bade  the  sun  stand  still, 
and  peopled  the  world  anew.  Or  these  things  he  en- 
deavoured to  do.  It  was  mechanical.  He  had  to. 
His  brain  would  not  stay  empty,  now  that  Hacklette, 
who  once  had  crowded  it,  was  cast  out.  For  that  matter, 
neither  could  his  soul  remain  a  vacuum,  since  for  the 
nonce  he  had  driven  forth  hatred.  He  was  only  begin- 
ning to  realize,  of  late,  that  some  other  soul  stuff  had 
been  filling  in.  But  this  gibberish.  .  .  . 

"And  the  great  big  earth  cracked  way  —  way  open  and 
— and — the  great  big  earth  bust  a  blood  vessel" 

That  was  all  of  it  he  could  piece  together.  He  trans- 
lated it  over  into  an  American  youngster's  lisping  tongue. 
He  tested  it  by  every  tale  and  song  he  knew  of  Indian 


228  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

folk-lore.  But  he  identified  nothing.  It  was  unique. 
Long  he  pondered  it.  There  was  plenty  of  time.  Five 
years  of  time  were  behind  him;  seven,  since  he  had  first 
come  to  this  country  resolved  on  treasure.  There  was 
plenty  of  time  ahead  of  him.  So  he  kept  on  pondering. 
Sometimes  he  jerked  himself  together,  jerked  himself 
wider  awake,  dug  spurs  into  his  brain,  goaded  it  out  of 
the  rut,  lashed  it  across  country.  He  pondered  gibberish 
on  and  on,  across  country,  in  the  rut,  driving  like  a  weary 
fiend  to  invisible  portals  that  would  not  open.  Yet 
when  morning  broke,  and  he  rose  to  awaken  Dolores, 
gently,  with  the  toe  of  his  boot,  and  asked  for  more  coffee, 
he  knew  that  the  secret  of  the  Veto,  Negra  was  his,  that 
the  hoard  of  the  mighty  Black  Vein  was  his. 

He  had  turned  his  back  on  what  seemed  the  certainty 
of  treasure  to  follow  a  loathsome  hag  on  an  errand  of 
mercy.  And  his  reward  was  the  treasure!  It  was  like 
the  old  tale  of  the  youth  who  carried  a  beggar  woman's 
fagots,  and  the  beggar  woman  was  really  a  fairy  with 
power  to  reward.  But  Krag's  charity  was  calculation. 
His  charity  was  of  a  piece  with  his  strategy  for  achieving 
the  treasure.  He  smiled.  It  was  a  grisly  smile.  Yet 
it  was  a  sad  smile,  too,  as  old  as  the  world,  and  tired. 
"Superb  bunco,"  he  muttered,  "I've  even  fooled 
Heaven!"  And  he  discovered  that  he  was  sorry.  He 
liked  the  fairy  tale  better. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

The  Mystery  of  a  Pepper  Tree 

A  PHILOSOPHER  has  owlishly  declared  that 
the  hardest  task  in  all  this  world  is  to  think. 
It  is  also  the  very  easiest.  For  the  greater 
part  of  his  vigil  beside  the  Yaqui  child,  Krag  found  it  the 
hardest  thing.  But  a  waif,  an  intruding  imp,  only  a 
remembered  name,  alighted  in  his  brain,  and  suddenly 
he  found  it  the  easiest  thing.  Idly,  casually,  shiftlessly 
—  or  was  this  thinking,  too?  —  the  name  of  the  Barranca 
Quebrante  wandered  into  his  meditations,  as  for  that 
matter  the  Latin  for  quassia  bark  or  the  date  of  the 
Norman  Conquest  might  have  done.  The  Barranca 
Quebrante?  He  recalled  that  Maisie  had  found  the 
grammar  of  it  unsatisfactory.  Why  a  breaking  barranca  ? 
What  could  a  barranca  break?  Shouldn't  it  be  the 
Barranca  Quebrada,  one  that  was  broken?  No,  Krag 
ejaculated,  no,  not  at  all!  Whereupon  the  balky  steeds 
of  thought  reared  and  plunged  headlong. 

.  .  .  "  and  the  great  big  earth  cracked  way  —  way 
open  and  —  and  —  the  great  big  earth  bust  a  blood 
vessel.  .  .  ." 

A  crack  in  the  earth?  —  that  was  a  barranca. 

A  blood  vessel?  —  that  was  a  vein. 

229 


230  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

A  barranca  "busting,"  severing,  a  vein?  Ergo,  the 
Barranca  Quebrante! 

And  the  vein  was  the  Black  Vein,  the  Vela  Negra. 

"In  the  face  of  the  barranca,"  dying  Cajemi  had  mut- 
tered. Krag  contemplated  incredulously  his  own  density. 
Yet  it  was  true,  for  he  had  never,  until  now,  reflected 
that  the  Vela  Negra  must  be  the  prolongation  of  the  spuri- 
ous Veta  Negra  across  the  barranca,  beginning  in  the  face 
of  the  opposite  cliff. 

Krag,  however,  waited  until  his  little  informant  was 
past  danger  before  setting  forth  to  make  sure. 

Astride  his  mule,  leaving  the  swamp  country  behind, 
threading  the  upward  trail  into  the  sierras,  Krag  was  the 
only  white  man  in  this  world  who  would  not  have  perished 
of  a  Yaqui  bullet  through  his  brain.  Yet  to  all  visible 
intent  he  was  alone  with  his  thoughts.  There  was 
temptation,  then,  to  drop  the  bars  and  let  in  the  blackest 
of  thoughts,  and  with  them  the  banished  Hacklette; 
to  let  those  demons  of  thought  drag  Hacklette  down, 
design  for  him  ruin,  humiliation,  beggary.  For  to  this 
Krag  would  devote  the  hoard  of  the  Black  Vein. 

But,  he  must  make  sure  of  the  Black  Vein  first,  and 
resolutely  he  kept  up  the  bars.  Serenely,  almost  sweetly 
in  reverie,  he  plodded  onward  toward  the  Barranca 
Quebrante.  No  feature  of  Hacklette  once  crossed  his 
mind's  eye.  Krag  put  him  taboo  while  the  vision  was 
yet  vague,  and  there  was  the  end  of  it. 

The  first  quarter  hour  that  Krag  had  endured  life  with- 
out that  vision  was  an  eon  of  triumph.  He  had  locked 
it  from  his  soul,  his  will  in  agony  braced  against  the  doors. 
Another  time  the  quarter  hour  grew  into  a  half  hour, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  231 

then  became  an  hour.  At  last  a  day  passed  without 
Hacklette,  then  days  at  a  time;  finally,  a  night.  He 
had  fallen  to  sleep,  had  slept,  without  the  vision!  It 
was  the  peaceful  slumber  of  a  babe.  That  broke  the 
ghost's  back.  For  more  than  a  year  now  Krag  had  not 
once  looked  on  the  Moloch  visage  of  hatred.  To  lack 
that  carrion  nourishment  was  become  a  habit  of  the  soul. 

Contemplating  the  long  ears  of  his  hard-headed  mule, 
Krag  reflected  that  he  had  better  be  occupying  himself 
with  how  he  should  possess  the  treasure.  He  might, 
with  heart  sufficiently  lost  to  decency,  do  either  of  two 
things.  One  was  to  reappear  in  civilization  and  account 
vaguely  for  his  five  years'  disappearance.  He  could  say 
that  he  had  been  wounded  and  captured  by  Yaquis  while 
out  prospecting,  and  as  evidence  point  to  the  furrow 
of  the  Mexican  bullet  across  his  temple.  After  that  the 
Yaquis  had  kept  him  to  tend  their  wounded,  especially 
as  they  saw  that  he  was  not  quite  right  in  his  head  and 
that  his  memory  was  a  shaken  leaf.  But  gradually  — 
and  here  he  would  ask  how  many  years  had  actually 
passed  —  his  sense  of  identity  had  come  back.  After  that, 
he  had  stayed  on  to  exact  retribution  for  his  sufferings; 
and,  moreover,  had  succeeded  so  well  as  to  surprise  the 
secret  of  one  of  the  Yaquis'  hidden  mines.  Having  thus 
righted  his  status  with  the  Mexican  authorities,  helped 
perhaps  by  a  driblet  or  so  from  the  immense  Golconda  at 
his  command,  he  could  go  ahead  and  realize  on  his  claim. 
An  impregnable  stockade  and  hired  battalions  would 
protect  his  mine  from  the  Yaquis. 

Or,  on  the  other  hand,  he  might  linger  with  the  Yaquis 
until  they  succumbed  to  the  Mexicans.  That  would 


232  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

not  be  long  to  wait.  Then,  when  the  tribe  should  no 
longer  exist  as  a  race  on  the  earth,  and  the  sierras  were 
open  terrritory  to  the  prospector,  then  he,  Krag,  would 
emerge  with  his  tale  and  stake  off  the  greatest  treasure 
of  all,  the  Veto,  Negra. 

But  hardly  had  Krag  begun  on  these  meditations  when 
he  was  taken  with  a  feeling  of  disgust.  Besides,  it  was 
not  perhaps  wise  to  entertain  treachery  in  his  thought 
yet  awhile,  since  to  achieve  that  treachery  he  must  re- 
quire for  a  time  longer  the  Yaquis'  trust  in  him.  He 
needed  to  reconnoitre  the  barranca.  He  needed  to  be 
left  alone  to  make  his  surveys  and  put  up  his  monuments. 
He  could  do  none  of  these  things  once  the  tribe  questioned 
his  absolute  devotion. 

So  the  wayfarer  reminded  himself  once  more  that  his 
baby  girl  could  talk,  could  walk  —  why,  she  was  probably 
going  to  school!  Of  course,  Maisie's  little  soft,  pink 
Honey  Bunch  was  past  six  years  old  —  so  high  —  no, 
a  little  taller  —  going  on  seven  years.  Yet  he  had  to 
remind  himself.  It  was  difficult.  He  always  thought  of 
her  first  as  the  wee,  unsteady  toddler,  more  in  arms  than 
out  of  them;  then,  remembering,  he  would  add  the  years 
to  that  mite  of  babyhood.  And  Maisie?  The  change 
in  Maisie  was  the  hardest  of  all  to  reconcile.  He  ought 
not  to  be  thinking  of  another  man's  wife.  But  he  did. 
No  will  power,  no  Lethe,  could  drown  those  thoughts, 
and  the  one  dear  memory  of  his  manhood. 

Krag  did  not  pass  through  Chihuitl.  He  avoided  the 
village  for  a  shorter  trail  to  the  Barranca  Quebrante. 
He  was  almost  there  when  the  figure  of  an  Indian,  lean, 
famished,  wolfish,  and  straight  as  a  wand,  rose  among 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  233 

the  rocks  ahead  and  waited  for  him.  It  was  Coyote.  He 
stood  mournfully,  his  chin  on  his  bony  chest,  and  Krag, 
riding  nearer,  saw  that  the  cruel  profile  was  distorted 
by  a  rage  that  knew  its  own  impotence.  The  chief  of  his 
tribe  was  returning  from  the  Barranca,  On  his  belly 
on  the  highest  overhanging  rock  he  had  looked  into  the 
gorge,  to  the  glistening  rails  of  the  iron  road  down  there, 
and  he  had  seen  old  men,  women,  and  children  —  Yaquis ! 
-  herded  on  flat  cars.  Perishing  of  hunger,  yet  to  earn 
a  few  centavos  for  their  warriors,  they  had  crept  out  of 
the  sierra  to  accept  peonage  on  the  nearest  hacienda, 
and  the  Mexican  soldiers  had  surprised  them.  They  were 
destined  for  the  rubber  swamps  of  Yucatan. 

"Thanks  to  the  iron  road,"  muttered  Coyote,  "they 
will  not  have  to  drag  their  chains  across  the  desert." 

Krag  did  not  ask  Coyote  why  there  had  been  no  rescue. 
He  knew.  One  cannot  wreck  a  train  filled  with  one's 
own  people.  Nor,  if  the  tram  be  stopped,  can  one  attack 
with  spears,  lacking  powder  and  shot. 

A  thought,  never  yet  considered,  forced  itself  upward. 
"There  is  one  way,"  said  Krag;  "we  will  make  the  Mexi- 
cans beg  —  yes,  for  peace,  Coyote.  And  we  will  say : 
'Send  back  to  us  our  people,  and  let  there  be  no  chains 
on  them.'" 

The  chief's  eyes  hardened  at  the  forbidden  word,  yet 
bewilderment  passed  their  fury.  Here  was  the  strangest 
of  the  strange  changes  that  had  come  over  the  tribe's 
good  saint.  Peace?  —  yet  it  was  the  same  Lone  Oak 
who  had  called  Cajemi  a  dog  for  breaking  the  splendid 
Yaqui  oath  never  to  cease  fighting!  The  simpler  Krag's 
motives  became,  the  more  Coyote  shook  his  puzzled 


234  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

head  and  thought  him  fathomlessly  deep.  Coyote  shook 
his  head  now,  and  missed  the  truth.  Krag  himself  all 
but  missed  the  truth.  For  the  truth  was,  the  sojourner 
among  the  Yaquis  no  longer  enjoyed  the  tribe's  death 
struggle  as  a  magnificent  spectacle.  He  no  longer 
wanted  these  grim  fighters  to  be  as  unyielding,  as  admira- 
ble as  fate.  He  was  willing  to  admire  them  less  rather 
than  they  should  utterly  perish.  Their  sufferings 
troubled  him.  Their  lowering  doom  revolted  him. 

"My  Coyote"  —he  spoke  in  a  simple  way  that  be- 
tokened helpful  strength  —  "we  will  make  them  cry 
enough.  It  shall  be  an  honourable  peace.  The  Yaquis 
shall  have  back  their  lands  and  homes  in  the  valley. 
The  banished  ones  shall  return.  But  it  is  to  fight,  my 
Coyote." 

"With  spears,  my  father?"  glumly  questioned  the 
Indian. 

"No,  Coyote,  not  with  spears."  Then,  as  naturally 
as  if  the  words  were  not  changing  his  plans  for  the  Veto, 
Negra,  and  shattering,  perhaps,  the  plot  of  all  these 
years,  he  added:  "Turn  now,  and  come  with  me." 

Whereupon,  to  his  amazement,  the  Yaqui  said:  "You 
are  going  to  the  Barranca  Quebrante " 

"Am  I  then?"     Krag  exclaimed. 

" but  there  is  no  need, "  continued  the  other. 

"She  is  safe.  She  did  not  come." 

"She?     But  Dolores-    -" 

"No,  no,  my  father.  I  speak  of  the  woman  who  — 
who  was  —  the  Lone  Oak's  wife.  She  is  safe,  for  she 
did  not  come  into  the  Barranca  with  her  father." 

Dead  ashes  of  the  past  lifted  by  the  breeze!     Krag 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  235 

listened,  plying  the  Indian  to  tell  of  this  thing.  Maisie 
was  in  Mexico.  She  had  come  with  her  father.  In  a 
private  car  she  had  come,  for  Hacklette  came  and  went 
as  befitted  a  large  mine  owner  and  railway  president, 
to  look  over  his  properties  with  a  sovereign  eye  and  frown. 

Coyote,  learning  that  Maisie  was  with  her  father, 
feared  that  she  might  also  come  with  him  to  the  mine 
in  the  barranca.  Coming  that  far,  she  might  wander 
alone  among  the  mountains,  climbing  to  some  height 
for  the  view,  and  be  shot  or  captured  by  Yaqui  scouts 
who  always  lurked  near.  To  keep  this  harm  from  her, 
Coyote  had  gone  to  the  barranca,  first  coming  to  Chihuitl 
for  Krag  to  go  with  him.  Despite  his  jealousy  of  Maisie 
the  young  barbarian  meant  to  give  Krag  the  startling 
joy  —  or  pain  —  of  beholding  her  once  more,  if  only 
from  the  cliff's  edge  above  when  she  stepped  from  the 
car  in  the  canon  below.  But  Coyote  had  to  return  with- 
out Krag,  and  from  the  cliff's  edge  he  had  beheld,  instead, 
scores  of  his  own  people  herded  like,  beasts  into  bondage. 

Krag  was  poignantly  touched  by  the  Yaqui's  watch- 
fulness over  Maisie.  He  suspected  that  Coyote's  spy 
service  at  the  Great  Stack  always  had  comprehended 
Maisie  as  well  as  hostile  regiments.  "In  this  saddle 
bag,"  said  Krag,  "there  is  sun-cured  fish.  The  weight 
of  it  will  comfort  your  stomach.  Now  come,  for  after  all, 
we  go  to  the  barranca.  Come!" 

The  wondering  Yaqui  turned,  and  in  scorn  of  curiosity 
asked  no  question. 

That  afternoon  the  mule  was  left  with  a  palsied  Yaqui 
goatherd,  whose  one  companion  was  the  last  survivor  of 
his  flock,  and  from  his  dismal  mountain  home  both  Krag 


236  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

and  Coyote,  retaining  only  their  weapons  and  a  lariat, 
followed  the  trail  on  foot,  Indian  file.  By  nightfall  they 
entered  the  danger  zone  radiating  from  Hacklette's 
railroad  terminus  in  the  Barranca  Quebrante.  Krag 
told  Coyote  where  he  wanted  to  go,  and  left  the  rest  to 
the  Yaqui's  woodcraft. 

During  the  night,  Coyote  leading  stealthily,  they  crossed 
the  barranca  near  its  head,  where  it  was  only  a  shallow 
arroyo.  Beyond  they  circled  widely,  leaving  the  little 
settlement  at  Hacklette's  mine  well  within  the  arc  of  their 
course.  At  a  point  below  the  settlement,  they  came  again 
to  the  barranca.  Here  daybreak  found  them,  lying  in  a 
craggy  nook  on  the  gorge's  precipitous  wall.  They  peered 
over  the  edge.  Far  below  a  resolute  little  locomotive 
was  puffing  and  grunting  and  tugging  away  at  a  crawling 
serpent  of  empty  cars.  To  the  right  a  steep  ravine  sloped 
downward,  emptying  in  the  barranca  like  a  great  trough 
aslant.  In  this  ravine,  five  years  ago,  Krag  had  first 
encountered  Coyote,  and  had  then  conceived  the  design 
of  his  present  quest.  There  also,  that  same  day  long  ago, 
he  had  located  the  supposed  Veta  Negra.  A  high,  dusty, 
bleak  hoist-house  now  covered  what  had  been  the  caved- 
in  stope,  and  a  stockade  surrounded  it.  The  rumble 
of  the  cable  was  faintly  heard.  There  was  a  sampling 
mill,  a  powder  house,  a  machine  shop,  an  office  building, 
cottages,  muckers'  bunk-houses,  a  tramway  down  to  the 
railroad;  all  the  modern  equipment  commensurate  with 
a  huge  ore  body  beneath.  They  were  a  monument  to 
irony.  They  were  many  futile  golden  dollars  heaped 
high.  But  the  one  man  who  could  read  the  epitaph 
shifted  his  gaze,  and  his  thoughts  likewise. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  237 

"My  Coyote,"  said  this  man,  "I  am  looking  for  some- 
thing that  is  hard  to  find. " 

The  Indian  regarded  him  sombrely. 

"Somewhere,"  Krag  went  on,  " in  the  face  of  that  cliff 
across  the  barranca  there  rests  a  precious  thing.  It  is 
Mexican  defeat.  It  is  Yaqui  salvation.  It  is  a  drooling 
item  of  private  vengeance.  We  cannot  ask  so  precious 
a  thing  to  be  easy  to  find,  my  Coyote.  So  we  will  lie 
here,  my  Coyote,  and  all  day  long  we  will  look." 

"Hungry  and  athirst,  ay,"  said  the  Indian,  "but  the 
bloodthirsty  have  the  keenest  sight,  my  father.  Let  us 
then  look. " 

Krag  knew  already  how  hard  to  find  was  the  thing  he 
looked  for.  Since  the  Conquest  men  had  searched,  and 
failed.  Knowing  more  than  they,  Krag  had  searched 
and  failed.  He  had  challenged  every  square  foot  of  the 
canon's  banks  for  vestige  of  an  old  working,  for  a  shaft 
covered  over,  a  discarded  stull,  a  dump,  a  trace  of  fortified 
enclosure.  Each  jutting  rock  and  loosened  pebble  he  had 
questioned  for  outcropping  or  float.  The  veil  was 
impenetrable. 

He  now  believed,  however,  that  to  look  for  surface 
"sign"  or  indication  was  useless.  The  spurious  Veto 
Negra  was  overlaid  by  beds  of  rock.  And  if  the  true 
Vela  Negra  were  an  extension  of  the  same  vein,  broken 
by  the  barranca,  then  very  likely  it  also  was  cloaked  within 
the  earth,  and  neither  erosion  nor  outcropping  would 
reveal  it.  Besides,  old  Cajemi  had  said:  "in  the  face  of 
the  barranca. " 

To  look  on  the  face  of  the  barranca>  Krag  was  here.  He 
had  looked  before,  taking  the  old  chief's  clue.  He 


would  look  again,  because  of  a  babe's  prattling.  The 
prattling  had  eliminated  miles  of  the  barranca,  and  left 
for  scrutiny  one  small  area  of  cliff.  One  need  only  to 
imagine  the  spurious  Veta  Negra  projected,  like  a  pipe 
line,  across  the  chasm,  and  then  locate  the  entering  point 
opposite. 

But  Krag  could  detect  nothing  on  the  face  of  the  cliff 
that  resembled  a  mineral-bearing  discolouration.  Whether 
the  earth  had  split  to  form  the  gorge,  agreeable  to  Yaqui 
fancy,  or  whether  the  little  brook  had  done  the  titan  job, 
was  not  material,  for  the  mountains  were  older  than  the 
barranca.  Once  on  a  time  there  had  been  no  barranca. 
The  stratification  of  both  cliffs  was  roughly  identical. 
Because  of  this  little  that  nature  deigned  to  reveal,  Krag 
would  not  despair  yet  of  her  maddeningly  hidden  treasure. 

"You,  Coyote,"  he  asked,  "what  do  you  see?" 

"I?  What  is  there  for  a  poor  Indian  to  see,  my 
father?" 

"Look,"  said  Krag,  "for  whatever  is  strange,  whatever 
you  cannot  understand,  and  let  me  have  it. " 

"I  see,"  said  the  Yaqui,  "a  bush  that  should  be  a 
tree. " 

"Where,  Coyote?" 

The  Indian  pointed  across  the  gorge  to  a  scrubby 
growth,  a  blot  of  dingy  green  on  the  bare  rock.  It  was 
rooted,  apparently,  in  a  ledge  of  the  cliff,  thirty  feet  or 
more  from  the  top. 

"That? "said  Krag.  "That  is  a  bush.  It's  chaparral 
or  greasewood. " 

"It  is  the  top  of  a  tree, "  said  Coyote.  "The  branches 
are  as  thick  as  a  man's  arm. " 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  £39 

"I  cannot  see  the  branches," 

"It  is  a  high  tree,  of  the  height  of  four  men." 

"But  the  trunk  of  your  tree,  Coyote,  is  it  in  the  solid 
rock?" 

"You  asked  me  for  what  I  do  not  understand,"  the 
Yaqui  reminded  him. 

Until  nightfall  Krag  wondered  what  had  become  of 
the  trunk  of  that  tree. 

The  sun  of  the  next  day  found  him  and  Coyote  lying 
on  the  edge  of  the  opposite  cliff,  at  a  point  directly  over 
the  bush  that  should  be  a  tree. 

The  edge  of  the  cliff  was  slightly  overhanging,  and  they 
could  see  only  a  few  twig  ends  and  leaves  of  the  tree  top 
below  them.  But  it  was  a  tree,  as  Coyote  had  said. 
Krag  recognized  the  pod  and  clustered  leaflets  of  the  pep- 
per tree.  They  waited  until  dusk,  although  there  was 
little  chance  of  being  seen  at  that  height  and  distance  at 
any  time,  and  Krag  went  over  the  edge  by  the  lariat.  He 
released  himself  in  the  tree's  upper  branches.  The 
mystery  was  then  revealed. 

In  effect  it  was  a  tree  growing  behind  a  wall,  and  thrust- 
ing its  top  above  the  wall.  The  wall  was  an  upstanding 
ledge,  some  ten  feet  high  that  jutted  up  from  the  cliff 
like  a  slab  of  marble.  The  crevice  formed  between 
was  several  feet  wide,  and  had  been  worn  into  the  cliff 
by  drippings  from  the  overhanging  edge  above.  Into 
the  crevice  bits  of  rock  had  fallen,  which  had  been  rotted 
by  the  water  and  crumbled  to  powder.  Then  a  lichen 
had  gotten  root-hold  in  the  sheltered  cranny,  and  for 
ages  lichens  had  grown  and  died  and  feathered  their  bed 
with  their  decay,  until  the  mosses  came.  And  the  mosses 


240  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

had  deepened  the  bed  greatly,  preparing  it  for  the  seed 
of  a  later  invader.  The  invader  had  been  a  pod  of  the 
pepper  tree,  tumbled  over  the  cliff  by  the  wind,  or  — 
planted  there  by  the  hand  of  man!  Certainly  the  tree 
had  grown,  and  its  top  now  filled  the  opening  of  the 
crevice,  until  no  one  might  suspect  that  a  crevice  was 
there. 

However  the  tree  came  there,  what  Krag  next  saw 
came  only  by  the  hand  of  man.  It  was  a  rude  pick, 
with  handle  rotted  away,  driven  and  left  in  the  face  of 
the  cliff  behind  the  upstanding  ledge.  Krag  took  from 
his  pocket  a  candle  stub,  lighted  it,  and  carefully  exam- 
ined the  metallic  material  which  held  the  pick  so 
fast. 

Krag  signalled,  by  whistling  low,  and  Coyote  came 
sliding  down  the  lariat  into  the  tree,  and  down  the  trunk 
of  the  tree,  and  stood  beside  him  in  the  crevice. 

"My  Coyote,"  said  Krag,  pointing  to  the  face  of  the 
cliff,  "there  is  the  Veto,  Negro..  Tell  me,  whose  is  the 
Vela  Negra?" 

"It  is  thine,  my  father." 

"Yes,  it  is  mine,"  said  Krag. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

The  Prosecuting  Witness 

WHEN  Krag  climbed  out  again  by  way  of  the 
lariat,  he  stood  for  a  time  on  the  cliff's 
far  edge,  and  through  the  starlit  night  con- 
templated below  him  the  fringe  of  the  white  man's  uni- 
verse. It  lay  under  him,  at  the  bottom  of  the  wild, 
black  gorge  —  a  locomotive  headlight  and  the  bump- 
ing of  freight  cars.  It  lay  beyond,  obliquely  opposite 
in  the  ravine,  against  the  sombre  mass  of  mountain 
—  a  dull  glow  in  the  hoist  house,  and  a  yellow  twinkling 
when  the  cage  popped  up  out  of  the  earth,  like  a  phos- 
phorescent cork.  They,  gnomes  of  the  sierra  and  the 
night,  were  very  busy  getting  out  ore  down  there.  The 
gnomes,  mine,  railroad,  the  universe  of  the  white  man, 
were  one  thing  —  Hacklette. 

Krag  drew  a  long  breath,  and  when  the  breath  went 
from  him,  the  flood  gates  burst  open,  burst  open  to 
the  rush  of  demon  thoughts,  to  the  cherished,  banished 
imps  of  hatred.  Now  he  could  take  them  to  his  bosom 
and  nourish  them,  and  let  them  feed  on  the  vitals  of  his 
being.  The  joy  of  it,  long  repressed  and  savagely  earned 
by  repression,  was  his  at  last,  since  the  Black  Vein,  the 
instrument  of  his  vengeance,  was  his. 

Like  a  man  whose  tongue  has  blackened  for  lack  of 

841 


242  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

water,  he  awaited  the  fierce  thrill  of  the  quenching 
draught.  He  waited  and  —  began  to  wonder.  Still 
he  waited,  expectant,  and  now  he  was  startled,  and 
bewilderment,  almost  fear,  grew  on  him.  The  thrill  had 
not  come !  And,  stranger  than  that,  there  was  no  thirst ! 

Where  then,  were  those  fiends  of  darkness?  The 
brooding  on  supercilious  pride,  and  wrong,  and  repay- 
ment— where?  Krag  waited  vainly  on  the  threshold, 
like  one  defrauded.  The  evil  horde  had  melted  away, 
had  gone,  straggling,  perishing.  The  man,  remembering 
how  hard  it  had  been  to  keep  them  out,  was  as  naively 
astounded  as  a  child  who  shuts  his  eyes  at  night  on  the 
hobgoblin  terrors  of  childhood,  and  awakes  to  find  them 
mysteriously  vanished  before  the  dazzling  glory  of  early 
morn.  As  little  did  Krag  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
He  was  bereft  of  purpose.  He  wondered  if,  instead  of 
fooling  Heaven,  Heaven  had  not  fooled  him. 

"A  mighty  queer  way,"  he  mused,  "to  be  cheated  of 
five  years'  vassalage  to  hell!"  His  mouth  twitched  into 
a  smile,  and  the  smile  was  a  fugitive  wraith  of  the  old* 
old  whimsical  grin  of  Jimmy  Krag's  boyhood.  But  his 
jaws  closed.  "I'll  not  be  cheated,"  he  resolved.  "I 
will  crush  him.  Yes,  it  is  quite  decided  that  I  will 
crush  him.  I  will."  This  was  entirely  intellectual. 
The  animus,  the  raging  lust,  was  gone.  Only  the 
naked  power  of  will,  the  deep  impress  of  purpose, 
remained.  He  would  cleave  to  this  matter  as  to  an  un- 
finished task,  to  a  duty  he  owed  the  integrity  of  his  will. 
And  meantime  he  left  the  floodgates  down.  Perhaps 
the  impish  horde  would  reassemble. 

He  turned  to  Coyote  behind  him.     The  Yaqui  chief 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  243 

had  picked  up  a  round  stone,  and  was  idly  tossing  and 
catching  it  in  the  darkness,  as  in  the  days  when  he  was 
a  lithe,  fleet  runner.  Some  such  lightness  of  the  spirit 
had  returned  to  him.  The  Indian  saw  his  tribe  once  more 
armed  and  formidable,  "My  Coyote,"  said  Krag,  "let 
us  hurry  from  here.  We  have  salvation  to  work  for." 

He  meant  Yaqui  salvation,  all  the  artful  planning  to 
convert  lumps  of  the  Black  Vein  into  corn  and  gunpowder. 
He  turned  to  it  eagerly,  though  his  eagerness  surprised 
him.  Hacklette  might  wait.  By  Heaven,  he  would 
have  to  wait!  Krag  confessed  that  it  was  weakness,  this 
distress  over  an  Indian  tribe.  Well,  he  would  indulge  the 
weakness.  He  had  rather  earned  a  little  self-indulgence. 
For  years  he  had  been  shackled  to  the  man  Hacklette, 
and  now  the  man  Hacklette  could  wait.  That  was  all 
there  was  to  that.  There  would  be  time  enough  later  to 
attend  to  the  man  Hacklette.  The  present  time  was  for 
weakness,  indulgence,  freedom. 

"We  will  lick  the  Mexicans  to  a  standstill."  He 
wished  that  he  could  say  it  that  way  in  Yaqui.  But 
Coyote's  barbarian  heart  was  already  throbbing  to  the 
same  lilt. 

They  got  back  that  night  to  the  goatherd's  lone  hut, 
and  became  straightway  the  architects  of  victory.  Or 
rather,  like  the  genie  out  of  the  bottle,  the  structure 
reared  its  silvered  dome  from  the  crevice  of  the  pepper 
tree. 

In  spite  of  fable  and  Mr.  Chubbuck  and  the  Spanish 
archives,  the  Black  Vein  was  not  a  hundred  feet  wide 
Yet  the  discount  of  fact  was  not  unreasonable.  Krng 
found  it  a  dozen  feet  across,  and  about  the  same  in  depth; 


244  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

which,  however,  in  other  terms  may  be  the  measure  of 
battleships.  That  is  to  say,  legend  had  this  much  right: 
a  pick  struck  in  the  lode  held  fast,  because  the  ore  was 
silver  and  lead  of  almost  virgin  purity.  The  proof  was 
the  pick  itself.  The  rusted  metal  had  crumbled  away  in 
flakes  as  Krag  tried  to  pull  it  out.  It  had  held  there 
possibly  a  hundred  years;  had  been  last  used,  one  could 
imagine,  to  pry  away  that  argentous  bowlder  with  which 
the  grateful  Yaquis  had  rewarded  a  charitable  Mexican 
widow. 

Except  for  such  a  specimen  now  and  then,  appearing  at 
rare  intervals  like  a  Mahatma  to  upset  the  world  of  men, 
the  Veto,  Negra  had  never  been  a  worked  mine.  It  was 
not  one  of  the  minas  tapadas,  covered  over  and  aban- 
doned by  the  owners  as  they  fled  before  an  Apache  or 
Yaqui  raid.  Nature  had  done  the  hiding,  nature  and  a 
pepper  tree.  So  here  was  one  clot  of  cream  that  the 
cream-lapping  Spaniard  had  overlooked.  Here  was  a 
castle,  a  cathedral,  an  armada,  that  he  had  left  behind 
in  the  rock. 

Krag  examined  fragments  broken  from  different  parts 
of  the  vein.  Some  were  stained  like  a  ruby,  with  native 
silver,  frost-encrusted  wires,  clinging  to  them.  Coyote's 
barbaric  eyes  were  fascinated  by  their  beauty.  But  Krag 
thought  most  of  a  sordid,  blackish  piece,  one  that  had 
surrounded  the  pick,  which  was  as  heavy  as  its  bulk  of 
silver  dollars.  It  would  run  thousands  to  the  ton. 
Others  carried  more  gangue  material,  and  were  not  so 
superbly  enrichened,  yet  were  very  rich  nevertheless. 
The  vein  might  widen  and  deepen,  or  it  might  be  only  a 
very  fat  pocket  tucked  away  in  the  cliff. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  245 

"No  matter,"  said  Krag,  "we  have  enough  in 
sight." 

"And  many  dead  Mexicans,"  whispered  the  Yaqui. 

Krag  looked  at  him  benignly.  "My  Vale  Coyote," 
he  said,  "whom  have  the  Yaquis  to  thank?" 

"My  father." 

Krag  smiled.     "Thank  your  own  son,  Coyote. " 

"My " 

Then  Krag  told  him  of  the  little  sufferer  in  the  fever 
swamp. 

The  Yaqui  sat  silent,  staring  unblinkingly  at  the  moun- 
tains. At  last:  "She  calls  him  chief?"  he  murmured. 

"Yes." 

"Then  thou  and  I,  my  father,  will  preserve  his  tribe  to 
him." 

"U'm,"  said  Krag,  "a  pretty  birthday  gift." 

They  plotted  it  with  adequate  guile,  as  the  days  fol- 
lowing and  Mexican  mortality  plentifully  certified.  The 
upstanding  ledge  that  hid  the  vein  also  hid  their  working 
of  it.  A  rope  ladder  lowered  to  the  crevice  at  nightfall; 
two  Yaquis  ascending,  each  with  a  sack  of  ore,  or  of  waste; 
the  ladder  pulled  up  again  —  thus  was  the  bonanza 
scratched.  But  it  was  enough,  and  more  would  not  be 
safe.  Krag  mixed  the  ore  with  different  kinds  of  country 
rock,  so  that  the  Guaymas  broker,  or  rescatador,  might 
suspect  neither  its  original  richness  nor  that  it  all  came 
from  the  same  deposit.  And  he  did  not.  He  believed  that 
the  stuff  was  gophered  out  of  exhausted  or  flooded  mines, 
and  he  was  too  crafty  a  buccaneer  in  contraband  to  ask 
a  question.  Many  Mexican  miners  driving  sack-laden 
burros  brought  their  rescate  ore  to  his  assay  office  in  Guay- 


246  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

mas,  and  it  was  a  matter  of  easy  contrivance  that  some  of 
them  should  bring  in  the  Yaqui  offering  as  well.  The 
one  thing  to  bother  the  rescatador  —  for  it  touched  his 
purse  —  was  that  the  Yaquis  knew  what  their  ore  was 
worth.  He  had  the  odd  feeling  that  he  dealt  with  an 
unseen  white  man. 

Weeks,  months,  passed.  Effect  grew  slowly,  but 
realization  was  abrupt,  after  the  manner  of  appalling 
catastrophe.  The  Mexicans  awoke,  and  noticed  that 
they  were  being  superbly  drubbed.  They  noticed  that 
they  had  been  driven  out  of  the  sierra,  flying  battalions 
of  them,  those  of  them  that  fled  with  sufficient  haste. 
Those  that  did  not  were  overtaken  by  soft-nosed  bullets. 
Instead  of  a  beaten,  famished,  skulking  foe,  a  giant  had 
come  up  refreshed. 

This  time  the  general  of  the  zone  did  not  send  soldier 
caps  to  the  capital.  The  minister  of  war  might  ask 
where  were  the  heads  that  had  filled  the  caps.  He  might 
fill  one  of  them  with  a  new  general  of  the  zone.  The 
general  of  the  zone  was  careful  not  to  provoke  repartee. 
His  despatches  were  laconic.  He  often  had  the  honour  to 
regret  to  report,  but  that  came  to  smell  of  monotony. 

Now  the  president  at  the  capital  was  deeply  embroiled 
in  peace.  Divers  bills  were  waxing  payable.  There  were 
public  works.  There  were  subsidies  on  new  railroads,  on 
vast  irrigation  projects,  on  beautification  and  utility. 
There  were  trunk  lines  to  pass  into  the  government's 
exchequer.  There  was  that  expensive  thing,  the  gold 
standard,  to  be  encompassed.  Perhaps  there  were  other 
items.  At  any  rate  the  president  was  weary  of  footing 
damages  for  a  brawl  off  in  a  crooked  lane  of  his  kingdom. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  247 

So  civilization  changed  sides  at  last,  and  brought  forth 
a  smashing  wallop  in  behalf  of  the  poor  Indian.  Locked 
in  her  Pandora  box,  that  bleached-out  crow,  the  dove  of 
peace,  fluttered  fretfully.  Krag  perceived  that  the  time 
drew  near  when  the  Yaquis  would  be  asked  to  ask  for 
what  they  wanted. 

He  was  considering  what  they  wanted  one  morning, 
a  little  before  sunrise,  as  he  stood  on  the  cliff  and 
gazed  down  into  the  Barranca  Quebrante.  He  had 
just  climbed  the  rope  ladder  from  a  visit  down  in  the 
true  Vela  Negra.  His  Yaqui  miners  had  drifted  per- 
ceptibly on  the  vein.  Crowding  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel 
as  well  as  the  crevice  there  were  now  fifty  tons  of  ore, 
sacked  and  ready  to  be  marketed.  Enough,  and  over, 
to  release  the  dove,  he  believed.  For  this  ore  had  not 
been  adulterated  with  country  rock.  It  averaged  two 
thousand  four  hundred  ounces  to  the  ton.  All  told  there 
were  almost  eight  thousand  two  hundred  pounds  of  pure 
silver  in  those  twelve  hundred  sacks  that  would  hardly 
fill  a  hall  bedroom.  Something  like  sixty  thousand  dol- 
lars —  yes,  that  would  about  do  it. 

And  then  what?  After  peace,  what?  Krag  did  not 
like  to  ask  himself  that.  But  the  question  was  stubborn, 
and  constantly  more  imminent.  For  when  the  Yaquis 
should  win  their  fight,  the  motive  was  gone  for  Krag  to 
defer  his  purpose  longer.  Naught  of  activity  in  this 
existence  remained  to  him  but  that  purpose.  To  stay 
with  the  Yaquis  was  to  dawdle,  and  for  Krag  dawdling 
was  uglier  than  death.  He  must,  then,  go  again  into 
the  world  of  men,  taking  with  him  what  he  had  come  for, 
and  do  with  it  that  which  had  goaded  him  to  come  for  it. 


S48  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

The  old  fanciful  equation  again:  money  equals  heart's 
desire! 

However,  he  did  not  want  to  go  back  into  the  world. 
He  pictured  the  utterly  dreary  loneliness  of  crowded 
pavements,  of  jostling  elbows,  of  laughter  and  merry 
voices,  of  cheery,  brightly  lighted  homes.  Whether  he 
met  old-time  friends  or  not,  whether  they  took  him  along 
to  their  firesides  or  not,  it  would  be  the  same.  No,  it 
would  be  worse.  He  would  be  more  alone.  He  shrank 
from  the  bleak  solitude  out  there,  and  clung  to  desert  and 
sierra,  to  his  wilderness  abode  and  the  wild  creatures  in  it, 
where  the  breadth  of  nature  and  passion  made  reverie 
serene,  and  the  soul  calm,  unclamorous,  because  the 
soul  knew  itself  to  be  so  small. 

Feeling  —  not  actually  thinking  —  these  things,  he 
gazed  down  into  the  gorge,  which  was  the  fringe  of  the 
world  where  he  must  soon  descend.  He  often  gazed 
down  there,  on  the  quaintly,  preposterously  busy  little 
locomotives  jerking  at  ore  cars,  and  over  to  the  hoist 
house  in  the  ravine,  listening  for  the  rumble  of  the  cable 
around  the  drum.  With  gazing  he  would  vivify  his 
purpose,  invoke  the  vision  of  Hacklette  in  these  activ- 
ities of  Hacklette,  so  that  the  purpose  which  had  driven 
him  out  of  the  world  might  violently  drag  him  back  again. 
For  he  admitted  now  that  possibly,  just  possibly,  naked 
will  power  alone  might  not  be  enough.  But  with  think- 
ing of  Hacklette,  he  had  merely  accustomed  himself  to 
the  idea  of  Hacklette,  until  Hackette  and  all  that  in  him 
was  had  flattened  out  to  an  insipid  platitude.  Krag's  intel- 
lect was  the  judge,  his  will  the  executioner,  but  his  animus, 
the  prosecuting  witness,  was  mute,  a  supine  fat-head. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  249 

"If  only  I  could  see  him  once,"  Krag  muttered  grudg- 
ingly, turning  from  the  cliff.  "If  I  could  see  that  hate- 
breeding,  high-bridged  nose  of  his.  If  I  could  hear 
his  rasping  snarl,  perhaps " 

He  stopped.  Not  fifty  yards  away,  sauntering  impor- 
tantly among  the  rocks,  was  a  man,  a  dilettante  pros- 
pector, a  human  being  in  these  sierras  wearing  kid  gloves! 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
God's  Machinery 

MR.  F.  DEL.  HACKLETTE,  president  and  gen- 
eral manager  of  the  Compania  Miner  a  La  Veto, 
Negra,  president  and  general  manager  of  the 
Ferrocarril  Barranca  Quebrante  y  Desierto,  was  disturbed 
by  no  thought  of  danger  in  venturing  across  the  gorge 
among  the  cyclopean  tumbled  rocks  on  the  other  side. 
He  went  in  a  smug  sense  of  immunity.  For  almost  three 
years  his  property  had  been  singularly  exempt  from  dep- 
redation. Mr.  Hacklette  unconsciously  accepted  this 
as  a  tribute  from  simple-minded  savages  to  his  own 
ubiquitous  mightiness.  At  the  present  moment  he  had  an 
idea  that,  by  virtue  of  his  beetle-browned  acumen  in 
large  business  affairs,  he  might  ferret  out  another  bo- 
nanza where  experience  and  geologic  knowledge  had  failed. 
A  second  mine  would  be  —  uh  —  acceptable.  It  would 
give  his  railroad  more  tonnage,  and  convert  that  little 
narrow-gauge  branch  into  a  persimmon  tree  of  dividends. 
To  bring  this  about  was  a  matter  of  pride.  Mr. 
Hacklette  would  have  scorned  the  suggestion  that  it  was 
in  the  least  essential  to  the  Hacklette  purse.  In  clutch- 
ing his  cigar  between  his  teeth,  in  buttoning  his  gloves, 
in  enduring  the  annoyance  of  having  to  give  orders  to  his 
private  secretary,  waiter,  butler,  chauffeur,  mine  super- 

250 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  251 

intendent,  railroad  superintendent,  lawyer,  and  dusky 
chef  of  his  private  car,  in  each  imposing  gesture  and  curt 
word,  Mr.  Hacklette  was  always  aware  of  his  tailored 
figure  as  a  figure  of  immense  riches.  He  scowled  in  clan- 
nish disdain  when  he  read  peppery  diatribes  against 
malefactors  of  great  wealth.  But  he  read  avidly,  because 
he  looked  for  his  own  name,  and  was  soured  because  he 
found  it  not.  He  hungered  for  universal  initiation  into 
the  gilded  caste.  It  would  have  to  come  soon,  he  told 
himself.  Potentially  he  was  the  Big  Four  of  the  Corn- 
stock  Lode  rolled  into  F.  DeL.  Hacklette.  The  alchemy 
of  another  Virginia  City  was  his.  Only  a  little  longer, 
and  it  would  be  transmuted  into  stocks  and  bonds, 
transatlantic  cables,  Raphaels  and  Corots,  foreign  titles, 
a  yacht,  a  French  chateau,  a  scandal,  and  a  swivel  chair 
in  the  United  States  Senate  —  he  believed  it  was  a  swivel 
chair. 

Financially  Hacklette  had  emerged,  puffing  like  an 
exhausted  swimmer.  He  had  been  under  more  than 
once.  That  he  pulled  himself  out  at  all  he  attributed  to 
hard-headed  business  genius,  forgetting  a  certain  lifeline. 
Maisie's  little  fortune,  which  he  had  snatched  at  the  last 
gasp,  was  the  lifeline. 

Despite  a  shrewd  business  man's  caution,  it  had  been 
foolishly  easy  to  be  a  gullible  fool.  Once  his  gaze  was 
fastened  on  the  mirage  of  bonanza  wealth,  he  had  swum 
for  it  beyond  his  depth  into  the  gripping  undertow. 
Krag  had  calculated  unerringly  as  to  that. 

The  thing  began  when  he  took  Maisie's  Veta  Negra 
stock.  He  took  it  at  par,  and  he  paid  cash,  $230,000. 
He  could  not  bully  Maisie  into  selling  it  on  any  other  terms, 


252  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

quite  simply  because  it  was  not  Maisie's  to  sell.  She  was 
only  Krag's  power  of  attorney,  and  Krag  had  dictated 
the  terms.  Such  exasperating  foresight  rankled  in  the 
Hacklette  bosom,  and  very  nearly  emptied  the  Hacklette 
safe  deposit  vault  of  its  securities. 

No  law,  of  course,  compelled  Mr.  Hacklette  to  buy 
mining  stock  at  all,  but  here  was  guileless  Bun  Chubbuck 
home  on  a  vacation,  and  here  were  Bunny's  specimens 
running  four  and  five  hundred  ounces  of  silver  to  the 
ton.  Also  one  read  the  newspaper  stories,  the 
Sunday  features,  with  lurid  pictures  of  centuries- 
old  skeletons  in  a  hidden  mine.  There  was  the 
identification  of  this  mine  with  the  fabulous  Veto, 
Negra.  There  was  the  psychologically  potent  nam- 
ing of  this  mine  as  the  Vela  Negra.  Chubbuck  in- 
nocently and  ardently  described  the  virgin  lode  that 
remained  untouched.  Krag's  prediction  came  true; 
people's  tongues  hung  out  to  lap  up  the  stock.  Next 
came  Maisie,  widowed,  perhaps,  and  Maisie  had  prac- 
tically all  the  stock.  It  would  have  taken  a  law  to  com- 
pel Mr.  Hacklette  not  to  buy  mining  stock.  He  hired 
mining  engineers.  Their  report  confirmed  simple  Bun 
Chubbuck.  Then  he  plunged. 

As  Krag  likewise  foresaw,  Hacklette  treated  his  be- 
reaved daughter  with  gracious  distinction,  with  insidious 
kindness.  He  toadied.  But  that  prescient  power  of 
attorney  was  not  to  be  wheedled  or  forced.  Hacklette 
grieved  to  give  so  much  of  his  fortune  to  the  possible 
enrichment  of  Jim  Krag,  supposing  that  Krag  were  still 
alive,  but  he  exulted  in  taking  from  Jim  Krag  a  prospect 
that  would  make  Jim  Krag  a  Big  Four  rolled  into  one. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  253 

Wherefore  he  paid  par,  and  he  paid  cash.  He  had  to 
call  in  loans  to  do  it,  and  negotiate  paper,  and  let  go  some 
suburban  potato  patches  that  he  was  holding  for  the  tide 
of  population. 

'At  once  he  put  a  surveying  corps  in  the  Sonora  desert, 
and  the  Yaquis  changed  surveying  into  foot  races.  The 
Yaquis  behaved  similarly  toward  Mr.  Hacklette's 
construction  camps.  The  work  stopped  again  and  again, 
and  the  desert  was  as  the  original  desert.  Hacklette 
negotiated  more  paper,  and  sold  an  office  building. 
Finally  he  mortgaged  the  Queen  Anne  mansion,  and 
ceased  to  look  the  bronzed  mastiff  in  the  face.  All  the 
time  he  could  not  get  out  of  his  head  the  idea  that  his 
daughter  was  rich.  This  was  unfilial.  Her  moneyed  ease 
—  ready-moneyed  ease  —  grew  into  an  affront.  He 
distinctly  regarded  it  as  an  affront  at  the  hands  of  Jim 
Krag.  Then  somebody's  toe  was  caught  in  Jim  Krag's 
bones.  They  were  surely  Jim  Krag's.  Maisie  recognized 
Jim's  ring.  Her  name  was  engraved  in  it.  She  remem- 
bered a  deep  scratch  in  the  ring,  when  Jim  bruised  his 
hand  on  a  rock  climbing  into  the  Veto,  Negra.  Hacklette 
consoled  Maisie.  He  stepped  softly  when  he  heard  her 
weeping.  Her  money  was  now  her  own.  She  was  not 
a  power  of  attorney.  She  was  a  widow.  Hacklette 
took  the  money.  He  had  to,  to  finish  the  railroad,  to 
support  an  army  along  the  right-of-way. 

The  Yaqui  discouragements  mysteriously  ceased,  and 
the  railroad  was  finished.  Heavy  mining  machinery 
crossed  the  desert  on  the  first  cars.  It  had  to  be  paid  for. 
It  had  to  be  installed.  A  tunnel  had  to  be  dug  on  the 
vein,  then  a  shaft,  drifts,  and  winzes.  Masses  of  ore  had 


254  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

to  be  blocked  out.  Such  development  work  had  to  be 
paid  for.  And  Maisie's  money  was  gone.  On  the  strength 
of  their  own  engineer's  report,  the  smelter  people  wanted  to 
get  in  on  the  deal.  Hacklette  would  not  sell.  But  he  did 
have  to  hypothecate  his  stock.  It  was  all  he  had  in  the 
world  to  hypothecate.  When  he  reached  the  bend  in 
the  vein,  he  would  be  a  ruined  man. 

Hacklette,  however,  knew  nothing  of  that.  He  did 
not  know  that  the  vein  bent.  It  was  an  uncommon 
thing  in  geology.  He  could  not  suspect  that  a 
geologic  monstrosity  lurked  under  the  mountain,  had 
lurked  there  for  millions  of  years,  waiting  to  make  a 
beggar  of  Mr.  Hacklette.  In  frenzied  ignorance  Hack- 
lette applied  every  shipment  of  the  rich  ore  to  redeeming 
his  hypothecated  stock.  He  had  been  shipping  now  for 
almost  a  year,  and  the  stock,  to  the  last  share,  was  home 
again  in  his  safe  deposit  vault.  He  could  begin  next  on 
the  lifting  of  mortgages,  on  the  rehabilitation  of  his 
fortune,  on  the  endless  multiplication  of  his  fortune 
commensurate  with  the  endlessness  of  the  vein.  And 
that  vein  would  wriggle  shortly  through  the  boundary 
line  of  his  claim,  and  be  no  more  his  property!  Were 
the  monstrosity  a  growling  beast,  the  man  at  the  drill  in 
the  breast  of  the  vein  must  have  heard  it.  But  the 
Thing  dozed  in  its  lair. 

For  Mr.  Hacklette,  then,  to  go  forth  and  turn  up 
another  bonanza  was  a  little  affair  of  recreation.  Be- 
sides, Mr.  Hacklette  had  awakened  as  he  lay  in  his  private 
car  on  a  siding,  and  though  it  was  not  yet  day,  he  was 
preternaturally  awake,  with  millions  in  silver,  a  pyramid 
of  silver,  on  his  chest.  This  often  happened,  and  he 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  255 

knew  from  experience  that  sleep  was  the  span  of  another 
day  beyond  recapture.  Accordingly  he  pressed  the 
button  for  valet,  chef,  and  secretary,  and  having  dressed, 
breakfasted,  and  dictated  orders,  all  with  caustic  dignity, 
he  stepped  from  his  car,  and  the  crisp  fragrance  of  the 
mountain  air  tingled  in  his  haughty  nostrils  as  the  breath 
of  endeavour.  A  morning  climb,  more  millions,  such 
was  better  than  sleep. 

Buttoning  his  gloves,  with  a  cane  under  his  arm,  he 
walked  the  railroad  ties  up  the  gorge.  Beyond  the 
terminal  of  the  road,  he  picked  his  footing  among  the 
stones  along  the  mountain  rivulet.  He  turned  to  his 
left,  where  the  barranca's  high  wall  broke  into  a  steep 
tributary  canon;  and  painfully  —  resentfully,  too,  for  the 
labour  of  it  —  he  gained  the  height  above,  near  the  edge 
of  the  barranca.  Here  he  went  poking  about  with  his 
cane  at  exposed  strata  of  rock. 

"  I  shouldn't  do  that, "  a  calm  voice  chided  him.  "  You 
might  get  yourself  scalped. " 

A  quick  spasm  jerked  the  muscles  along  Mr.  Hack- 
lette's  spine.  He  swung  round,  incensed  at  being  taken 
unawares.  He  gathered  a  scattered  reserve  force  to  brow- 
beat, to  awe,  the  gaunt  and  battered  and  burly  rough- 
looking  customer  who  suddenly  filled  his  eye.  He  was 
too  greatly  startled  to  consider  that  there  was  nothing 
of  menace  hi  the  keen  and  intently  curious  gaze  levelled 
on  him.  Mr.  Hacklette's  discernment  rarely  penetrated 
deeper  than  clothes,  and  the  clothes  on  the  serenely  tower- 
ing individual,  to  Hacklette's  agitated  senses,  were  easily 
desperado  accoutrement  —  limp  felt  hat  on  a  rugged, 
rock-hewn  head,  faded  gray  woollen  shirt  laid  open  to 


256  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

a  browned,  magnificent  column  of  neck,  earth-grimed 
khaki,  laced  boots  rusted  and  peeled;  and  all  tagged  with 
terror's  brand,  a  sagging  cartridge  belt  and  ugly  black 
six-shooters.  Yes,  and  a  murderous  machete,  though  it 
was  only  for  lopping  off  cactus  in  the  trail. 

The  stranger  perceived  the  distress  that  Mr.  Hackette 
was  indignantly  trying  to  hide.  The  hard,  questioning 
gray  eyes  of  the  stranger  mellowed  to  a  whimsical  light 

—  whimsical,  but  saddened  and  very  tired  —  and  he  half 
chuckled,    half    grunted.      "There,    Hacklette"    -  and 
Hacklette  felt  a  hand  that  seemed  as  heavy  as  a  bag  of 
sand   laid   reassuringly   on   his   shoulder—   "there,   I'm 
Krag  —  you  know,  little  Yellow  Jaunders.    But  I  mean, " 

—  he  found  English  words  odd  on  his  tongue  —   "  what  I 
say.     It  isn't  safe  for  you  this  side  the  barranca,  and  you 
will  have  to  run  along  back. " 

Krag  could  not  help  that  attitude.  He  had  no  thought 
of  the  farcical.  He  intended  nothing  belittling.  He 
felt  sorry,  like  a  big  boy  for  a  little  boy.  But  his  attitude, 
since  Hacklette  was  a  man  grown  and  nearly  twice  his 
age,  was  woven  of  contempt;  was  bound  to  be.  Krag 
did  not  know  that  he  was  showing  it.  He  was  only 
abruptly  and  tragically  aware  of  how  absurd  it  was  to 
dignify  this  man  by  an  Olympian  passion  like  hatred.  He 
had  feared  that  he  might  want  to  kill  Hacklette;  drop  him, 
in  a  grandeur  of  simplicity,  over  the  edge  of  the  canon. 
But,  at  sight  of  him,  the  high  tension  of  years  snapped, 
broke  to  ridiculous  ease.  He  simply  felt  contemptuously 
indulgent,  as  for  a  vain  old  turkey  cock  with  feathers  on 
end.  He  was  sorely  puzzled,  and  disgusted,  that  he  could 
ever  have  felt  any  other  way.  But  the  big  boy  did  not 


257 

take  stock  of  how  much  the  big  boy  had  grown.  Neither, 
for  that  matter,  did  Mr.  Hacklette.  The  mine  owner  and 
railway  magnate,  reassured,  saw  only  little  Yellow  Jaun- 
ders,  a  worm.  He  caught  an  iron-gray  bristle  of  mous- 
tache between  his  teeth,  and  snipped  it  off.  He  tightened 
his  grip  on  his  cane,  thinking  seriously  of  using  it.  He 
became  his  curt,  supercilious  self. 

"You?"  he  sneered.  "What  —  what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"Saving  your  life,"  said  Krag.     "Go  now,  go!" 

"But  you  —  those  —  your  bones? " 

"A  man's  bones  are  his  own,"  said  Krag  —  talking 
English  again  seemed  like  a  resurrection—  "but  you 
needn't  leave  yours  here.  There  are  Yaquis  within 
gunshot.  You  must  go  back. " 

Hacklette  did  not  hear.     ' '  You  —  you  were  not  killed  ? ' ' 

"No!     Do  you  want  an  affidavit?" 

A  rush  of  poignant  questions,  none  of  which  he  could 
ask,  swept  over  Hacklette.  What  if  this  tramp  were 
taken  with  a  notion  to  resume  life  in  the  world?  What  if 
this  inscrutable  son-in-law  demanded  the  fortune  taken 
from  his  wife?  Hacklette's  composure  was  outward 
only.  His  eyes  focussed  austerely  over  the  high-bridged 
nose.  "Why,"  he  inquired  subtly,  "ain't  those  Yaquis 
shooting  then?" 

"I  told  them  not  to.     But  the  next  time 

"You  booby!"  cried  Hacklette.  "I  thought  I'd 
catch  you!  So  the  Yaquis  are  your  friends,  eh?  Well!" 
His  lip  curled.  "Sunk  to  dirty  Indians,  eh?  Well!  Got 
a  squaw,  too,  I  guess."  For  a  pause  he  whiffed 
the  stench  of  it.  Then  he  foreclosed,  as  hard  as 


258 

flint.  "Now  you  skut,  listen  to  me."  The  words 
were  bitten  off  and  spat  at  him.  "We've  been  shut 
of  you  for  five  years,  see,  and  we  want  more  of  the 
same.  Show  your  head  out  of  these  mountains,  and  I'll 
make  the  relief  permanent.  Get  that?  Ask  me  how. 
Because  I'll  denounce  you  to  the  Mexicans,  and  they'll 
shoot  you  on  sight !  Do  you  —  you  get  it  all  ? ' ' 

Krag  listened  with  intent  interest.  Here  was  an  honest 
sample  of  what  had  been  exasperating  in  the  man,  and 
Krag  was  not  exasperated.  He  was  meditating,  instead, 
on  the  cruelties  of  time  revealed  in  the  puffy  sacks  blown 
under  Mr.  Hacklette's  eyes,  the  flabby  pouches  about  the 
corners  of  the  mouth,  the  lumpy  jaws,  and  little  globular 
belly  that  would  be  a  capitalistic  paunch.  Rather  than 
antipathy,  Krag  felt  shame  for  him.  For  Krag  was  the 
host  now.  In  a  way,  these  sierras  —  expanse,  height, 
breadth,  truth  —  were  his  home,  and  he  was  entertaining 
a  stranger  here. 

"You  heard  me?"  said  Hacklette. 

"Eh,  oh,  yes,"  said  Krag.  "But  the  Mexicans,"  he 
stated,  "would  give  me  time,  prior  to  execution,  for  the 
recovery  of  a  stolen  sum  of  money,  about  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  I  could  always  interest  the  Mexicans 
in  a  sum  like  that,  you  know.  And  I  suppose  they  still 
have  penitentiaries  up  in  the  States.  So  if  that  is  why 
you  would  have  me  shot,  it  is  also  why  you  would  never 
ask  to  have  me  shot,  and  I  was  entirely  safe  in  revealing 
myself  to  you  just  now  for  the  purpose  of  saving  your  life." 

"How  did  you  know  —  how " 

"Know  what?" 

"That  I  took  —  that  I " 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  259 

"That  you  stole  my  two  hundred  thousand  dollars? 
But  I  didn't  know  it.  I'd  only  heard  it.  But  let  that 
pass.  The  thing  now  is :  you  must  restore  that  money  to 
—  to  Maisie  —  and  —  and  Bunny. " 

"Bunny?" 

"Yes,  BunChubbuck." 

"Chubbuck?  What-    -" 

"I  want  him  to  have  that  money.  She's  my  baby  girl, 
isn't  she?  And  Chubbuck  is  the  kind  to  find  it  hard 
enough  to  support  Maisie  —  to  support  two  —  without 
having  my  baby  girl  .  .  .  No  matter,  you  give 
them  back  that  money. " 

Out  of  the  helpless  bewilderment  on  Hacklette's  face 
there  grew  a  look  of  relief.  He  gulped  painfully.  The 
look  narrowed  to  craft  and  cruelty. 

"Yes,"  he  sneered,  "  she  took  the  precaution  to  get  a 
divorce  first. " 

"Of  course  she  would,"  said  Krag. 

"Precisely,"   said   Hacklette,   swallowing  hard.      He 
took  a  cigar  from  a  soft  leather  case,  clipped  it  with  his 
pearl-handled    knife,    and    rolled   it   between   his    lips. 
"  But  if  she  should  happen  to  learn  that  you're  alive  — 
the  shock " 

"You  are  not  going  to  tell  her,  are  you?" 

"Hell,  no,  but  you-    -" 

"Wait,"  said  Krag.  "You  will  have  to  pay  her  back 
that  money. " 

"If " 

"You  will,"  Krag  went  on,  "turn  over  to  her  your  ore 
settlements  from  date,  until  it  is  all  paid.  Then  you  will 
send  me  a  receipt,  signed  by  her  and  Chubbuck.  You 


260 

will  place  it,  weighted  by  a  stone,  on  this  rock."  He 
laid  a  hand  on  the  rock  he  meant. 

"If  I  do  not?" 

"Do  you  really  want  the  answer  to  that  question?" 

"I— no,  no!" 

"Then  go.  Cross  the  barranca  just  once  more  to  bring 
the  receipt.  Once  more  than  that  .  .  .  Anyhow, 
I  don't  want  the  Yaquis  to  kill  you. " 

But  Hacklette  could  not  go  yet.  Somehow  the  serene 
outlaw  had  robbed  him,  maimed  him,  trussed  him  up. 
Worse  than  six-shooters  was  mild  indifference.  Power 
and  pose  must  strike  one  blow  before  he  quit  the 
field. 

He  gripped  his  cigar  anew,  let  the  blue  smoke  cloud 
his  eyes,  and  frowned  smugly  through  it  at  Krag. 
"You  recall  Cleft  Rock,  I  guess?  You  ain't  forgot  it?" 

A  shade  of  annoyance  passed  over  Krag's  face. 

"And  what  you  said  to  me  that  day?" 

"I  was  a  young,  sullen,  grudge-hided  fool,"  said  Krag. 

"Well,  I  guess!     You  - 

"For  giving  you  a  word  or  a  thought. " 

"Eh?  —  But  you  drooled  something  about  taking  my 
money  away  from  me.  You  was  going  to  ruin  me.  I 
think  it  was  to  be  by  the  next  time  we  met. " 

"It  must  have  sounded  disgusting." 

"You  remember,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Well,"  said  Hacklette  —  he  waved  his  hand  over  the 
cliff,  taking  in  the  railroad  below,  the  mine  buildings  in 
the  ravine,  and  particularly  the  private  car  on  the  siding 
—  "well,  we've  met  now,  ain't  we?" 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  201 

"Hacklette,"  said  Krag  patiently,  "I  wish  you  would 
go.  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  while  you're  in  danger. " 

"But  you  promised  to  ruin  me,  you  know,"  Hacklette 
insisted. 

"A  promise?"  Krag  repeated.  "That's  a  lien  on  a 
rational  creature's  future,  isn't  it?" 

"Even  if  the  creature  welches,"  Hacklette  laughed 
nastily. 

"Let  me  ask,"  said  Krag,  "how  far  have  you  drifted 
over  there?"  He  pointed  to  the  spurious  Veta  Negra. 

"Oh,  a  thousand  feet,  more  or  less,  on  all  the  levels," 
said  Hacklette  proudly.  "I'm  one  to  push  things." 

"And  at  this  moment  you  are  penniless  except  for  that 
mine,  and  the  railroad,  which  is  worthless  without  the  mine. 

"Eh,  who  —  that's  none  of  your  business. " 

"I'm  afraid,  Hacklette,"  Krag  confessed  without 
triumph,  "that  I  have  kept  my  promise." 

The  cigar  dropped  from  the  magnate's  parted  teeth. 
He  tried  to  laugh  at  the  start  the  other  gave  him.  "  I  see," 
he  said,  "you're  sore.  Just  sore,  and  ugly  about  it. 
But  you  couldn't  develop  a  property  like  that  yourself, 
you  know.  It  took  a  moneyed  man. " 

"But  I  did  try  to  save  you,"  added  Krag. 

"Thank  you  for  not  succeeding !     How?  " 

"It  was  nearly  three  years  ago,"  said  Krag,  "about  the 
time  the  Yaquis  stopped  molesting  your  railroad.  One 
of  your  surveyors  found  my  saddle  bags,  in  a  clump  of 
chaparral,  near  where  those  bones  had  been  found  two 
years  before  that.  Some  bits  of  float,  notes,  and  so  on, 
were  in  the  bags;  particularly  a  memorandum,  apparently 
jotted  down  during  that  last  and  fatal  prospecting  trip 


262  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

of  mine.  The  memorandum  was  about  my  claim,  your 
Vela  Negra  down  there.  Did  you  get  it?" 

" Never  paid  any  attention  to  it,"  grunted  Hacklette. 
"How  could  you  know  more'n  my  experts  what's  in  the 
ground?" 

"I hoped  at  the  time  it  wouldn't  stop  you,"  said  Krag. 
"But  I  did  try.  It  was  a  —  a  system  I  was  playing. " 

"System,  eh?  Oh,  ho,  thought  you'd  scare  me  off  the 
mine,  eh,  and  come  back  to  work  it  yourself?" 

"And  now,"  said  Krag  quietly,  "I  believe  I  am  sorry 
it  did  not  stop  you. " 

"  Shouldn't  wonder.  Any  rat  would,  that  gets  poisoned 
by  his  own  fangs. " 

"That,"  said  Krag,  in  a  voice  as  low  as  a  whisper, 
"I  know  that  is  true." 

"Shouldn't  wonder  again,"  said  Hacklette.  "You 
see  the  results,  I  guess. "  He  waved  a  contemptuous  hand 
back  over  the  wilderness  of  wandering  and  man's  deso- 
lation. Then  the  gloved  hand  swept  his  own  estate, 
railroad,  mine,  private  car.  Suddenly  his  eyes  contracted 
malignantly.  "Look  —  there!"  He  pointed  direct  at  a 
snow-white  speck  down  in  the  gorge.  "Well,  I  shouldn't 
wonder,  really. " 

Krag  saw  that  it  was  a  child,  a  little  girl,  near  the 
private  car.  She  was  playing  on  the  edge  of  the  tiny 
brook,  making  a  dam  of  pebbles.  Krag  gestured  toward 
the  white  speck,  mutely  questioning.  Hacklette  noted 
the  dumb  suffering  in  the  man's  eyes. 

"One  guess  enough?  Well,  yes,  that  is  our  little  Alice 
Krag  —  uh,  Chubbuck,  I  should  say.  Confusing  to  keep 
the  old  name,  you  know. " 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  263 

" It  can "  —  the  father  hesitated  —  "it  can  be  arranged 
for  me  to  see  her.  Tell  her  I'm  one  of  your —  your 
muckers.  Pass  it  off  casual,  that  way  —  Come!" 

Hacklette  seemed  to  be  weighing  the  feasibility  of  the 
plan.  Thus  he  fed  on  the  other's  hunger,  and  kept  him 
waiting.  He  loosened  stones  near  the  cliff's  edge  and 
pried  them  over  with  his  cane,  to  hide  by  lowered,  medi- 
tative head  what  was  on  his  lips.  When  he  looked  up, 
he  flaunted  the  grinning  sneer. 

"You  said  you  remember  Cliff  Rock,  I  believe?" 

Slowly  Krag  got  the  meaning  of  the  question,  and 
the  stricken  gray  eyes  cleared,  fixed  on  this  man. 

"  I  see  that  you  do, "  Hacklette  v/ent  on.  "  You  tricked 
me  out  of  my  daughter  that  day,  and  later  deserted  her. 
Now  answer!  Don't  you  think  you've  got  one  ghastly 
nerve  to  come  whining  around  me  for  your  daughter? 
Eh,  don't  you?" 

But  the  gray  eyes  troubled  him.  They  were  searching, 
fathomless,  and  in  judgment  over  him.  Then  a  bewildered 
contempt,  as  for  something  unbelievably  mean  and  vul- 
gar, grew  into  the  eyes.  But  abruptly  the  man  seemed 
to  sicken.  Krag  saw  himself  in  this  unbelievably  mean 
and  vulgar  thing.  The  vile  code:  "An  eye  for  an  eye 
.  .  .  It  was  this,  his  past  self,  that  sickened  him. 

"And  see  here,"  cried  Hacklette,  "you  keep  away 
from  my  car  down  there!  I've  got  guards  down  there 
and  you're  the  same  as  a  Yaqui.  Come  where  we  can 
pot  you  once,  and  

The  wickedest  flaw  in  human  society  is  that  one  man 
can  ever  be  in  the  power  of  another  man. 

"If  you  had  a  friend,"  said  Krag,  so  earnestly  that  he 


264  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

might  have  been  that  friend,  and  sorrowfully,  as  from  a 
terrible  knowledge,  "he  would  implore  you,  for  your 
own  sake,  not  mine,  to  keep  your  soul's  fingers  out  of 
God's  machinery.  Man,  man,  you  don't  know  what  you 
are  doing!" 

Hacklette's  brows  lifted  mockingly.  "Threats,  eh?" 
But  Krag  had  turned  and  left  him.  Alone  in  the 
wild  silence  of  the  place,  Hacklette  skulked  behind 
rocks.  His  spine  twitched  fearfully  until  at  last  he 
had  climbed  down  safely  into  the  canon.  He  was  not 
wholly  himself  until  he  was  under  the  whisk  broom  of  his 
valet  in  his  private  car. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

A  Shipment  of  Ore 

TWO  nights  later,  when  Hacklette's  car  and  Hack- 
lette  and  the  snow  white  speck  had  returned 
across  the  desert  to  the  Great  Stack,  the  Yaquis 
made  a  terrific  attack  on  Hacklette's  mine.  Unseen  in 
the  dark,  they  had  circled  up  the  ravine  above  the  mine 
buildings,  and  opened  fire.  It  was  totally  unexpected. 
Terrified  peons  came  tumbling  out  of  the  bunk  house  and 
cowered  in  the  stone  office  building,  until  their  American 
foremen  thrust  Winchesters  into  their  hands  and  drove 
them  to  the  stockade.  The  Mexican  guards,  being  cursed 
steadily  by  the  superintendent,  fumbled  for  loopholes 
and  pumped  away  at  random.  The  shift  then  down  in 
the  mine  could  not  be  herded  to  the  cage.  They  scuttled 
like  rats  to  the  farthermost  workings,  and  huddled  there, 
waiting  to  be  killed.  In  the  canon  a  half  dozen  men  guard- 
ing some  loaded  ore  cars  tried  to  escape  toward  the  desert, 
but  Yaquis  firing  from  the  cliff  above  turned  them,  and 
they  hunted  for  cover  in  the  stockade. 

"Queer  the don't  charge,"  muttered 

the  superintendent.     Nobody  had  been  hit.     But  the 
battle  spluttered  like  a  caldron  for  hours. 

On  the  brink  of  the  chasm,  at  the  barranca's  edge  di- 
rectly over  the  true  Vela  Negra,  a  man  stood  in  the  dark- 

865 


266  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

ness,  and  his  figure,  lone,  lost  in  the  night,  was  itself  as  a 
creature,  or  a  prince,  of  darkness.  He  had  paused  for  a 
moment  in  certain  silent  toil,  and  stood  there  on  the  wild 
eminence,  head  sunken  to  his  chest,  a  grave  spectator  of 
the  crackling,  spitfire  little  inferno  over  in  the  ravine. 
For  he  had  created  it.  Like  a  calm  engineer  with  thumb 
on  a  talismanic  button  to  destroy  a  fleet,  or  inundate  a 
domain,  or  set  grinding  the  mills  of  the  gods,  he  was  the 
master.  The  terrific  force  of  nature  that  he  had  harnessed 
to  his  desire  was  human  passion,  and  across  there  the 
night  and  the  sierra  were  in  labour  to  bring  forth  his 
hidden  purpose. 

Here  was  a  knife  slash  at  the  very  antennae  of  the 
republic's  power.  A  railroad  was  threatened,  a  mine 
was  attacked,  and  both  were  of  foreign  capital.  The 
spitfire  would  echo  next  day  on  the  bourses  of  the  world. 
Points  would  crumble  of?  the  apex  of  Mexican  securities. 
Then  there  was  the  sequent  colic  of  the  president 
down  at  the  capital.  To  throw  good  money,  not  to  men- 
tion lives,  after  once  good  money,  not  to  mention 
lives,  and  bring  this  disastrous  brawl  to  an  end  —  per- 
haps? Or  to  ask  the  brawlers  what  they  wanted? 

But  this  was  not  the  purpose,  not  altogether  the  pur- 
pose, of  the  man  on  the  chasm's  brink.  It  was  much 
nearer.  A  rope  dangled  before  his  eyes  and  on  down  into 
the  black  abyss.  Though  his  outstretched  hand  grasped 
the  rope,  the  night  was  so  thick  that  he  could  not  see  it. 
The  certain  silent  toil  was  all  by  feel.  The  rope  grew 
taut,  and  strained  faintly  outward  against  his  grip. 
At  this  the  man  hurried  back  from  the  cliff's  edge,  and 
came  again  to  the  rope,  here  slanting  to  the  ground. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  267 

He  laid  his  hands  on  it,  and  fifty  other  hands  behind  him 
tightened  on  it,  and  a  line  of  dark  forms  in  the  darkness 
behind  him  pulled  backward  steadily,  swiftly,  as  though 
playing  at  a  tug  of  war.  A  pulley  creaked  dully  some- 
where in  air. 

A  dark  bulk,  dangling  at  the  rope's  end  and  as  inert 
as  a  corpse,  rose  slowly  out  of  the  black  canon  to  the 
edge.  The  man  ran  to  receive  it.  With  a  long 
hook  he  caught  the  rope,  and  by  a  giant's  strength 
pulled  the  massive  bundle  toward  him.  As  it  grazed 
the  edge,  he  whistled.  The  rope  slacked,  and  the 
thing  descended  again,  while  the  man  guided  it  with 
his  hook  around  the  rope.  The  bundle  went  down 
through  the  top  of  the  pepper  tree,  whose  branches 
had  been  partly  cut  away,  and  thence  into  the 
crevice  between  the  cliff  and  the  upstanding  ledge. 
Naked  arms  reached  for  it,  and  eased  it  to  earth  in  the 
mouth  of  the  mine  tunnel.  The  rope  net  enclosing  it 
was  flung  open,  and  piecemeal  the  cargo  was  borne  into 
the  tunnel.  Each  piece  was  a  sack  of  ore.  It  had  come 
from  the  ore  cars  in  the  gorge  below,  which  was  Hack- 
lette's  ore  out  of  the  spurious  Vela  Negra,  awaiting 
shipment.  The  attack  on  the  mine  stockade  enabled 
the  silent  toilers  to  do  this. 

Yet  the  drama  of  forty  —  or  four  hundred  —  thieves, 
like  the  spluttering  caldron,  was  but  an  essential  to  the 
man's  purpose,  and  not  yet  the  purpose  itself.  When 
the  rope  was  unhooked  from  the  bundle,  it  was  instantly 
hooked  into  a  similar  bundle,  made  up  and  waiting, 
and  the  stealthy,  block-and-tackle,  cargo-shifting  pro- 
cess was  reversed.  The  outgoing  bundle  was  sacked  ore 


268  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

also,  but  the  ore  in  the  sacks  was  from  the  true  Veta 
Negra.  Therefore  each  outgoing  sack  carried  one 
hundred  ounces  of  silver  as  against  eight  or  nine 
ounces  in  each  incoming  sack. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  canon,  when  the  burdened  rope 
deposited  its  weight,  there  was  another  interchange  of 
bundles.  Naked,  perspiring,  powerful  forms  came  and 
went,  each  staggering  under  a  heavy  sack.  They  con- 
stantly varied  their  path  over  the  gravelly  canon 
bed,  so  that  no  marked  sprinkling  of  ore  could 
later  betray  their  operations.  To  make  doubly  sure, 
each  sack  during  its  voyage  was  wrapped  in  a  serape. 
Finally,  when  the  attack  on  the  stockade  had  drop- 
ped off  to  fitful  outbursts,  the  ore  cars  in  the  gorge, 
three  of  them,  lay  deserted  and  loaded  as  originally, 
four  hundred  sacks  to  the  car;  except  —  that  each 
sack  now  held  one  hundred  ounces  of  silver  instead  of 
eight  or  nine  ounces. 

To  return  to  the  man's  purpose.  The  man  was  not 
certain  of  that  purpose  himself.  Now  that  it  was  all 
over,  even  to  the  removal  of  the  block-and-tackle  scaffold- 
ing, he  stood  again  on  the  cliff  and  wondered  what  he 
had  really  meant.  He  grappled  deep  in  unfamiliar 
reaches  of  thought,  or  of  his  soul,  and  believed  at  last 
that  he  knew  why  he  had  done  this  thing.  But  after  a 
little  he  doubted  if  that  were  the  answer  after  all,  and 
he  searched  farther  and  deeper,  and  paused,  for  surely 
he  had  it  now!  The  revelation  wrought  in  him  a 
startled  sense  of  amazement,  yet  —  no,  he  must  grope 
deeper  yet. 

At  first  he  said:  "It's  so  he  can  pay  Maisie  back.     A 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  269 

few  more  such  shipments "  For  quite  a  time  that 

seemed  to  be  the  answer;  seemed  to  be. 

Then,  he  said:  "It's  restitution.  My  soul  is  sick  of  its 
own  vileness.  'An  eye  for  an  eye.'  Perhaps  restitution 
will  heal.  Of  course  I  still  hate  Hacklette  "  —  he  paused, 
doubting,  for  he  must  get  this  thing  straightened  out. 

At  last  he  murmured:  "The  poor  old  bloated,  futile 
peacock.  I  got  him  into  it,  and  I'll  have  to  pull  him  out. " 
He  was  dismayed  at  the  discovery.  But  he  smiled 
whimsically,  feeling  better.  There  was  no  further  need 
to  grope  and  delve.  This  was  rock  bottom.  This  was 
the  purpose. 

As,  deeply  at  peace,  he  turned  now  from  the  cliff,  the 
last  of  the  toilers  there,  a  panther-like  body  flung  itself 
upon  him,  and  struck,  struck,  with  serpent  quickness. 
He  reeled,  trying  to  fend  off  the  steel,  but  he  caught  at 
her,  held  her.  He  knew  at  once  who  it  was. 

"Coyote  wants  you,"  he  said,  gasping.  "He  wants 
his  boy.  He  has  been  searching " 

"While  you  rob  his  —  my  —  boy!"  She  struggled 
against  him  to  strike  again.  "You  steal  the  secret. 
I  follow  you.  I  carry  my  boy,  my  little  chief.  He  is 
sick,  and  I  stop  —  days  —  weeks.  And  here  —  you  have 
the  secret.  You  steal  the  silver.  You  haul  it  away  on 
the  white  men's  cars.  —  Hunh,  good,  you  are  dying 
now!" 

The  world  was  still,  except  for  these  two.  The  last 
ember  of  the  battle  over  in  the  ravine  was  cold. 

"Coyote!"  cried  the  wounded  man,  peering  into  the 
darkness  as  he  sank  to  the  ground.  "Quick,  here's  your 
wife,  Coyote!" 


CHAPTER  NINE 

A  Boom  in  Buttons 

MIKE  ELDRIDGE,  the  smelter's  assayer,  glared 
at  the  tiny  silver  button  —  to  his  eyes  it  was 
a  croquet  ball  —  that  he  had  just  taken  from 
a  cupel.  Muttering  as  though  whiskey  were  in  his  brain 
he  peered  into  the  other  salt-cellar  like  cups.  They  were 
on  a  tray,  and  the  bone  ash  was  yet  glowing  from  the 
white  heat  of  his  furnace.  He  squinted  incredulously 
at  the  seeming  drop  of  quicksilver  nested  in  each,  for 
each  button  was  a  bullet,  a  pebble,  a 

"Bowlders!"  ejaculated  Mike.  "If  they  think  this 
here  assay  shop  is  a  quarry,  why " 

He  scraped  back  his  chair,  and  strode  out  in  long- 
legged  perturbation  down  to  his  friend,  the  foreman  of 
the  sampling  mill.  But  Mike  was  circumspect.  "Drib- 
lets," he  said  to  the  foreman,  "I  fumbled  my  pulp  on 
that  last  Vela  Negra  lot,  dropped  it  on  the  floor,  salted 
it  with  last  year's  deposit  of  cigarette  ashes.  Wish 
you'd  snatch  another  sample  for  me,  and  not  think  to 
mention  it  to  the  Old  Man." 

Eldridge  watched  this  resampling  himself,  from  ore 
bins  to  bucking  board.  The  mine's  representative  had 
not  been  advised,  and  was  nowhere  near.  Eldridge 
left  with  a  new  pulp  sacked  by  his  own  hand.  There 

270 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  271 

could  be  no  unchastity  about  this  sample.  A  day  later 
he  drew  a  second  tray  of  cupels  from  his  incandescent 
muffle,  laying  it  on  the  table  beside  his  scales.  Again 
he  lifted  out  a  button,  brushed  off  the  litharge  crust^ 
and  gazed.  This  time  he  gazed  with  a  cumulative 
thoughtfulness.  The  glistening  bead  was  pure  silver 
carrying  gold.  It  was  the  silver  and  gold  in  an  assay- 
ton  of  ore,  and  proportionate  representative  of  the  gold 
and  silver  in  an  actual  ton.  But,  as  Eldridge  conser- 
vatively protested,  there  would  be  so  much  silver  and 
gold,  and  so  darned  little  ore.  Resignedly  he  caught 
up  the  button  in  his  tweezers,  to  lay  it  on  the  balance,  a 
delicate,  glass-encased  balance  that  could  weigh  a  signa- 
ture to  the  last  dot  of  an  i.  Then  he  rebelled. 

"What  this  shop  needs,"  he  sobbed  wrathfully,  "is  a 
platform  scales  and  a  derrick.  When  they  want  a  coal 
heaver  on  this  job " 

He  moved  to  a  coarser  balance  and  weighed  the  button. 
He  weighed  the  button  in  each  of  the  other  cupels,  and 
struck  an  average.  "Before  they  grow  up  into  meteor- 
ites," he  grumbled  —  "twenty -four  hundred  and  one 
ounces,  wow!"  With  acid  he  consumed  the  silver  in  each 
button,  weighed  the  gold  remaining,  and  again  struck  an 
average.  "An  ounce  of  gold,  leaving  just  about  twenty- 
four  hundred  ounces  of  silver  in  each  ton  of  this  man's  ore 
—  there,  there,  Mike,  steady  now.  You  know  you  never 
did  believe  in  real  money,  anyhow.  It's  something  that 
ain't  so,  and  don't  you  go  to  getting  superstitious 

A  footfall  was  heard  in  the  office.  The  assayer  shot 
a  look  over  his  shoulder.  Mike  was  uncircumspect  only 
in  soliloquy.  He  nodded,  and  went  on  figuring  out  his 


272  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

report  on  this  sensational  ore  lot.  It  made  him  feel 
like  a  romancer,  and  he  was  shamed  and  peevish. 

"My  determinations  ready?"     spoke  the  intruder. 

Eldridge  shivered.  The  man's  voice  always  set  him  on 
edge.  "  When  they  ar^, "  he  said,  "they  go  to  the  office. " 

"No  matter,  I'm  in  a  hurry  for  my  settlement  sheet, 
and  you've  had  two  days  to  assay  that  last  lot. 
When " 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  Eldridge  to  himself  in  a  conver- 
sational pitch,  "that  some  shippers  feel  awful  sure  some- 
times that  nobody's  going  to  call  for  an  umpire  assay." 

"Call  for  an  umpire?"  exclaimed  the  intruder. 
"Look  here,  you,  if  you're  hinting " 

Eldridge  flung  down  his  pencil,  and  swung  in  his  chair 
like  a  locomotive  on  a  turntable.  But  the  Irish  in  his 
eye  did  not  get  to  his  tongue.  A  first  glance  at  the  man 
changed  all  that. 

"By  the  way,  Hacklette,"  he  asked  casually,  "what 
did  you  people  find?" 

"Find?    When?    What?" 

Eldridge  was  convinced.  "Lord,  Lord,"  he  moaned 
in  his  breast,  "the  man  don't  know  what's  in  his  ore  — 
yet!  For  the  love  of  Mike,  Mike  dear,  now  be  careful!" 

"In  that  last  lot,"  demanded  Hacklette,  "that  what 
you  mean?"  He  was  beginning  to  take  alarm.  His 
ore  had  showed  a  falling  off  in  richness  lately.  As  a  check 
on  the  smelter,  it  was  sampled  and  assayed  at  the  mine, 
and  made  to  run  as  high  as  possible  by  means  of  a  slow 
furnace.  On  this  last  lot  he  had  as  yet  only  the  mine's 
assay  from  the  mine's  sample,  for  Eldridge  had  thought- 
fully delayed  sending  the  smelter's  pulp  to  the  mine  for 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  273 

assay.  Consequently,  the  smelter's  assay  was  of  Krag's  ore 
from  the  true  Vetra  Negra,  and  Hacklette's  assay  was  of 
the  spurious  Vetra  Negra  ore,  three  cars  of  it,  which  had 
never  reached  the  smelter,  thanks  to  Krag  and  his 
Yaquis.  Hence  any  remark  about  an  umpire  assay  was 
disturbing.  Had  Eldridge,  in  that  last  lot,  found  a 
startling  drop-off  in  the  ore?  Did  Eldridge  think  that 
he,  Hacklette,  would  demand  an  umpire  in  order  to  be 
convinced?  The  least  suggestion  that  his  bonanza  might 
be  petering  out  made  Hacklette  intolerably  snappish. 
It  was  his  first  mine,  and  he  had  not  realized  yet  that 
they  never  do  feed  from  the  hand,  and  that  never,  never, 
can  they  be  trained  to  do  the  same  trick  ad  infinitum. 

Mike  Eldridge,  however,  not  only  knew  the  ways  of 
mines,  but  the  ways  of  the  men  who  owned  mines.  And 
this  one  was  snappish.  He  had  seen  that  in  that 
first  glance. 

"Yep,"  said  Eldridge,  "in  that  last  lot,  that's  what  I 
mean.  Was  just  wondering,  that's  all,  if  your  assayer 
was  bothered  as  much  to  find  something  in  it  as  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  what's  V.  N.  quoted  at  these  days,  anyhow?" 

"It's  not  quoted,"  Hacklette  stiffly  retorted.  But 
he  was  suffering.  So  people  were  guessing  already  that 
he  might  want  to  sell !  "No  sir, "  he  asserted  indignantly, 
"it's  not  on  the  market.  Not  a  share,  sir. " 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  a  share,"  said  Mike,  talking 
sociably  as  he  worked  on  the  sensational  report.  "You 
see,  some  of  us  poor  brow-sweaters  around  these  works 
could  pool  enough  for  a  perfectly  whole  vara.  When  a 
thing  slumps,  drops  to  our  reach — a  low-grade  propo- 
sition, say  —  why,  then  we're  the  easy  marks.  We're  a 


274  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

regular  philanthropic  institution,  easy  as  charity.  About 
the  V .  N.  —  from  the  last  few  shipments  I  judge  it  ought 
to  be  waxing  some  less  haughty  and  exclusive.  .  .  . 
Still,"  said  Mike,  rambling,  forgetting  about  it,  "as  you 
say,  maybe  we  had  better  save  our  money. " 

But  Mr.  Hacklette  would  not  play  the  game.  One 
cannot  do  horse-trading  with  an  arrogant  tyro  who  does 
not  know  a  spavin  when  it  is  pointed  out  to  him.  Mike 
Eldridge  pointed  out  spavins  for  a  half  hour,  and  only 
insulted  Mr.  Hacklette  the  more.  It  was  like  bidding 
for  a  man's  game  leg.  As  Mike  reflected  that  he  could 
not  throttle  Mr.  Hacklette,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  he 
woefully  gathered  up  his  papers,  and  dragged  his  steps 
over  to  the  office.  But  he  went  to  the  Old  Man  himself, 
general  manager  and  vice-president,  and  saw  that  the 
door  was  closed  and  that  they  were  alone.  Without  a 
word  he  handed  over  the  report,  and  waited  for  the 
explosion. 

The  Old  Man's  eyes  bulged  for  an  instant,  and  then  he 
said:  "I'd  advise  a  good  night's  sleep,  Mike." 

But  this  time  Mike  would  stand  for  no  impeachment 
of  his  sobriety.  He  mentioned  the  resample.  Every- 
thing checked.  One  might  suppose  that  the  Old  Man  was 
beginning  to  look  frightened.  It  was,  though,  only 
mixed  feelings;  a  phenomenon  common  enough  in  all 
mining  camps  when  word  passes  that  some  one  else  has 
struck  a  rich  lead.  The  Old  Man  was  mentally  wording 
a  telegram  to  the  company's  president  in  New  York. 
Eldridge  interrupted.  "There's  something  else,"  he 
mused  aloud,  "that  might  combine  with  that  report  to 
—  advantage. " 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  275 

The  general  manager  looked  at  him  steadily.  Eldridge 
shook  his  head. 

"You're  hired  here  as  assayer, "  the  Old  Man 
began. 

"And,"  said  Eldridge,  "you've  got  there  all  I  can  give 
you  as  assayer.  But  I'm  not  hired  as  a  psychologist." 

"Oh  come,  Mike,  what's  the  tip?" 

"The  word  being  longer,  the  fee  comes  fancy.  I'll 
want  ten  shares,  when  you  buy  the  Veta  Negra." 

"You  whiskey  sponge,"  cried  the  Old  Man,  "how  did 
you  get  it  into  your  fevered  brain  that  we  were  wanting 
to  buy  -  -  " 

"That,"  said  Eldridge,  "is  a  specimen  gratis  of  expert 
psychology.  Do  I  get  the  ten  shares?" 

"Mike,  you  do,  if  it  helps  us  to  buy." 

"Then  here's  your  parcel,  neatly  wrapped  up,  tied  with 
baby  ribbon  —  to  wit :  Hacklette  don't  know  yet  that 
this  last  lot  is  any  different  from  the  rest." 

The  Old  Man  jumped  to  his  feet.  "And  you  stand 
there  with  a  bonanza  like  that  under  your  tongue,  and 
don't  spit  it  out!  Where's  this  fellow?  You  didn't 
let  him  get  away?" 

"He's  hanging  around.  I  told  him  maybe  you'd 
hurry  up  his  settlement  sheet. " 

"Then  hustle  him  right  in.  —  No,  you  psychologist, 
let's  not  be  abrupt.  He'll  ask  for  me,  and  you  tell  him 
you  guess  I'll  be  disengaged  in  seven  or  eleven  minutes." 

Two  hours  later  Mr.  Hacklette  came  out  of  the  general 
manager's  office  fraught  with  emotion.  He  had  just 
been  offered  a  half,  three  quarters,  then  one  cold,  flat 
million  for  his  mine  and  railroad.  For  the  first  time  in 


276  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

his  life  Mr.  Hacklette  had  had  a  chance  to  refuse  a  million 
dollars,  and  he  had  refused  it. 

As  for  the  general  manager,  in  his  turn  he  had  found 
it  impracticable  to  throttle  Mr.  Hacklette,  and  on  the 
other  hand  he  had  bid  as  high  as  he  dared  on  his  own 
responsibility.  The  instant  his  door  closed  behind  Mr. 
Hacklette,  he  dived  into  his  code  book  and  began  digging 
therefrom  a  long  message  to  the  company's  president. 
Their  own  engineers,  he  reminded  the  president,  had 
already  reported  favourably  on  the  mine,  on  the  strength 
of  which  the  company  had  not  only  loaned  Hacklette 
money  for  development  work,  but  had  tried  to  buy  it  for 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  A  further 
examination  of  the  property  now  was  unadvisable,  since 
it  would  only  give  Hacklette  time  to  estimate  the  real 
value  of  his  bonanza,  beside  arousing  competitors. 
He  concluded  by  asking  the  company  to  specify  a  limit. 

Having  sent  the  telegram,  the  Old  Man  trotted  out 
and  down  to  the  sampling  mill.  He  ordered  another 
resample  of  the  last  Veta  Negra  lot,  and  himself  replaced 
the  foreman  while  it  was  being  done.  Personally,  also, 
he  made  the  assays.  Mike  was  right.  Everything 
checked.  By  that  time  came  a  reply  from  New  York, 
The  president  specified  two  millions.  But  Hacklette 
was  gone. 

The  Old  Man  was  disgusted.  Hacklette  had  ordered 
out  an  engine,  had  hitched  it  to  his  car,  had  approximated 
express  speed  and  twenty  wrecks  to  get  to  his  mine. 
However,  he  came  back  the  next  day,  and  stalked  across 
the  Old  Man's  path.  Or  the  Old  Man  trotted  across 
Hacklette's  path.  At  any  rate,  the  Old  Man  aggressively 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  277 

advanced  to  a  million  three  hundred  thousand  for  mine 
and  railroad,  and  thereupon  aggressively  stopped  short. 
And  Hacklette  accepted,  inwardly  trembling  and  gulping 
hard.  The  Old  Man  was  self-congratulatory.  He 
believed  he  had  dazzled  Hacklette  with  certified 
checks,  thoughtfully  drawn  in  advance.  Hacklette 
also  was  self-congratulatory.  For  out  at  the  mine 
they  had  just  broken  into  the  lair  of  the  geological 
monstrosity. 

Hacklette  would  have  returned  immediately  to  the 
States,  except  for  one  thing.  There  was  a  ghost  to  lay. 
To  lay  the  ghost  a  certain  receipt  for  moneys  paid  must 
be  left  on  a  certain  rock.  Hacklette  still  wanted  very 
much  to  comply.  True,  he  had  no  mine  now  to  be  at- 
tacked by  Yaquis,  yet  his  dread  of  his  resourceful  son-in- 
law  stayed  with  him.  It  was  rather  greater.  For  if  Krag 
heard  of  the  sale  of  the  mine,  he  might  hasten  to  reveal 
himself  and  demand  the  sum  due  Maisie.  He  could  even 
blackmail  him,  with  threats  of  criminal  prosecution,  for 
a  much  greater  amount.  Beside  which,  Hacklette  had 
his  own  private  reasons,  inclusive  of  his  daughter's 
opinion  of  her  father,  for  keeping  Krag  and  Maisie  apart 
by  any  means  whatever.  To  reimburse  Maisie  rather 
than  Krag  had  its  advantages,  since  he  could  always 
wheedle  the  money  out  of  her  again.  Providentially, 
he  had  brought  Maisie  with  him  on  this  trip.  He  could 
give  her  his  check,  and  get  her  receipt  at  once.  He 
would  account  for  the  absence  of  Chubbuck's  signature 
by  a  note  to  the  effect  that  Chubbuck  was  in  the  States 
and  could  not  be  reached  conveniently.  But  to  place 


278  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  receipt  on  the  certain  rock;  it  was  that  which  troubled 
Mr.  Hacklette. 

In  his  heart,  for  all  his  suspicious  nature,  the  man 
trusted  to  Krag's  word.  Otherwise,  he  would  not  have 
thought  twice  about  a  receipt  which  was  to  bind  Krag, 
on  his  promise  alone,  never  to  let  Maisie  know  that  he  was 
alive.  And  yet,  there  was  human  nature.  What  of  human 
nature,  when  one  man  keeps  another  man  from  his  own 
child?  What,  in  human  nature,  will  that  second  man  do, 
given  the  chance?  Hacklette  saw  again  the  look  on 
Krag's  face  as  he  gazed  down  into  the  canon,  and  frankly 
he  shuddered. 

Then  again,  suppose  Krag  could  not  restrain  the  Yaquis. 
They  might  hold  him,  Hacklette,  for  a  ransom.  They 
might  kill  him  outright.  No,  he  could  not  go  alone.  He 
thought  of  a  body-guard.  But  that  was  more  perilous. 
It  was  breaking  the  compact.  It  relieved  Krag  of  his 
word.  An  armed  force  would  tempt  the  Yaquis  to  a 
wholesale  instead  of  a  single  killing. 

Finally  he  thought  of  Maisie.  Yes,  Maisie  should  go 
with  him.  If  it  came  to  endangering  Maisie,  Krag  would 
certainly  control  his  Yaquis,  would  certainly  spend  his 
own  life  doing  it.  And  Hacklette  meant  to  keep  close 
to  Maisie.  With  Maisie,  too,  he  did  not  fear  capture, 
since  Krag,  being  certain  that  Maisie  was  married 
again,  would  not  reveal  himself  to  her,  as  he  might  have 
to  do  in  case  he  permitted  the  Yaquis  to  capture  her. 

Assuredly  there  was  no  other  way,  and  this  way 
Hacklette  at  once  put  into  execution.  He  gave  Maisie 
his  check  for  two  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  dollars, 
forgetting  interest,  and  said  playfully  that  he  must  have 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  2/9 

her  receipt.  "Just  sign  it  'Maisie,'  "  he  said.  Next 
he  offered  her  one  last  chance  to  see  the  Barranca 
Quebrante.  He  had  to  go  out  there  once  more,  he  said,  to 
turn  over  the  property  to  the  smelter  people.  "You've 
never  come  yet,"  he  reminded  her. 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling,  while  tear-dimmed  eyes 
pleaded  to  be  let  off.  The  last  trip  together,  Jim's  and 
her's,  had  been  up  there  in  that  canon.  And  it  was  up 
there  where  Jim  had  been  killed. 

"Your  last  chance,"  urged  her  father.  "Afterward, 
you  know,  we  start  for  the  States,  and  it's  good-bye 
Mexico  for  good." 

"I'll  go,  father,"  she  said  suddenly. 

She  could  never  be  so  poignantly  reminded  of  Jim  again, 
and,  since  she  was  never  more  to  have  the  chance,  she 
found  that  she  yearned  for  the  sharp,  sweet  pain  of  it. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

Naming  a  Celestial  Villa 

WEN  Krag  saw  that  he  could  not  hold  Dolores, 
is  he  wanted  to  do  for  Coyote's  sake,  nor  even 
defend  himself  longer  from  her  stinging  poin- 
ard,  he  called  out.  The  cry  was  not  consciously  a  ruse, 
yet  was  a  ruse  nevertheless.  His  senses  told  him  that 
there  was  no  help  in  the  darkness,  but  some  desperate 
cunning  of  the  life  instinct  made  him  cry  out  before  he 
knew.  The  same  instinct  made  him  use  Coyote's  name. 
The  murderess  remembered  her  young.  Lest  Coyote 
take  her  and  so  find  the  boy,  she  ran.  She  came  to 
where  she  had  hidden  the  child,  and  paused  only  long 
enough  to  wrap  him  to  her  breast  in  her  rebosa. 

The  padded  footfalls  died  away,  and  Krag  hah6  lay  on 
the  ground.  Something  —  a  sensation  of  reeling  —  made 
him  think  of  the  snowy  white  of  a  hospital  cot,  and 
the  restfulness  of  it,  and  made  him  long  to  close  his  eyes 
and  shift  to  others  the  burden  of  doing  what  could  be 
done  to  save  his  life.  He  was  surely  drooping  to  earth 
as  into  his  bed.  "Wait,  though,"  he  said,  putting  out  a 
hand  to  support  himself.  "I  am  the  doctor,  too.  Unpro- 
fessional to  —  forget."  And  it  was  the  physician,  wearily 
taking  up  again  his  old  fight  with  mortality,  and  not  the 
man  thinking  of  his  own  life,  who  with  one  hand  and  his 

280 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  281 

teeth  bound  a  handkerchief  around  his  arm,  above  a 
deep  knife  wound.     "I  hope  that's  the  —  worst  one,"  he 
murmured,  "and  that  the  others  can  —  wait  until     . 
Besides  I  am  —  tired."     He  let  his  head  sink  then,  with 
the  fading  away  of  his  senses. 

As  Dolores  ran  with  her  child,  the  flying  end  of  her 
rebosa  brushed  against  an  organ  cactus  and  a  frazzled 
thread  was  caught  and  held  in  the  thorns.  The  next 
morning  a  war  party  of  Yaquis,  returning  from  the 
feigned  attack  on  Hacklette's  mine,  dragged  her  from 
where  she  crouched  in  a  lump  of  chaparral. 

"You  know  me,"  she  cried  to  them  quickly,  "I  am 
Cajemi's  daughter." 

Some  of  the  warriors  could  remember  Cajemi's  sleek 
daughter  in  the  draggled  woman,  and  this  saved  her  from 
a  spy's  instant  fate. 

"The  tribe  has  missed  you,"  said  their  leader,  "and 
the  chief  has  had  every  eye  watch  for  you."  But  when 
they  saw  that  she  carried  a  child,  they  were  at  a  loss  to 
understand. 

"You  are  Chagre,  I  think,"  she  said.  She  was  al- 
ready plotting  escape.  "Where  then  is  Tetibite?" 

The  petty  chieftain  told  her  that  Tetibite  had  de- 
parted for  Cocorito,  a  deserted  pueblo  on  the  new  military 
highway.  He  had  gone  to  hear  a  peace  offer  from  the 
Mexican  general.  "But,"  Chagre  added,  "the  meeting 
place  will  be  safely  ambushed.  The  Lone  Oak  thought 
of  that.  Let  the  pelones  do  more  than  their  peace  talk, 
and " 

"Peace?"  repeated  Dolores.  "Chagre,  you  lie.  The 
Yaquis  do  not  forget  how  Cajemi  died ! " 


282  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

The  warriors  looked  at  one  another  guiltily.  The 
vehemence  of  her  scorn  made  them  ashamed. 

"We  cannot  always  fight,"  Chagre  urged.  "Even 
Tetibite,  after  many  days'  talk  with  the  Lone  Oak  — 

"The  Lone  Oak,  the  Lone  Oak!"  Her  dark,  blinking 
eyes  opened  on  them.  "Truly  the  Yaquis  are  the  Lone 
Oak's  peons.  If  not,  who  loads  the  cars  of  the  iron 
road  for  him?" 

"Why  not?"  demanded  the  chieftain,  rousing  to  anger, 
and  the  tawny  braves  around  him  muttered  assent. 
"Why  not?  The  Lone  Oak  saves  our  tribe.  The  Lone 
Oak's  mine  wins  our  battles." 

"His  mine?"  she  cried.  "Hunk,  you  do  not  know, 
then.  You  do  not  know  that  the  mine  is  your  own 
mine.  You  do  not  know  that  you  rob  your  own  Vela 
Negra  for  him.  Ay,  ay,  friends,  the  Vela  Negra!" 

Their  faces  grew  dark  and  evil.  No,  they  did  not 
know;  and  she  laughed  at  them  bitterly,  mocked  them  for 
simple  children.  The  tribe's  secrets,  so  long  preserved 
from  chief  to  chief,  had  become  as  inviolate  to  the  Yaqui 
mind  as  sanctity  itself,  and  the  name  of  the  Vela  Negra, 
most  fabulous  of  the  hidden  treasure  houses,  was  as  the 
lustre  of  a  shrine.  Blinking  at  them  always  out  of  her 
sleepy  eyes,  Dolores  denounced  this  white  man,  this 
Lone  Oak,  for  he  had  come  seeking  their  buried  mines, 
and  at  last  he  had  stolen  from  her  the  secret  of  the  Vela 
Negra,  while  pretending  to  cure  her  babe  of  the  calen- 
tura.  Might  they  not  now  understand  why  the  Lone 
Oak  wanted  peace?  She  broke  again  into  her  gurgling 
laugh.  Why,  if  not  to  work  his  stolen  mine  in  quiet? 
He  could  not  long  smuggle  his  ore  into  the  cars  of 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  283 

his  wife's  father  before  the  Mexicans  found  him  out. 
He  must  sell  the  Yaquis  into  the  bondage  of  peace,  and 
so  buy  his  own  peace  to  enjoy  the  Yaquis'  treasure 
hoards. 

What  the  dangerous  woman  saw  then  in  their  faces 
killed  her  desire  of  escape.  The  chief's  absence  from  his 
tribe  gave  her  a  chance  for  deadlier  artistry. 

"We  are  not  children,"  spoke  Chagre.  "Yet  are 
we  only  warriors.  The  Lone  Oak  has  truly  saved  the 
tribe,  but  if  it  was  to  rob  us,  then  must  our  elders  in  their 
wisdom  say  how  to  pay  him  off  both  as  saviour  and  thief. 
Now  I  seem  to  know  why  he  talked  with  the  Americano, 
who  is  the  father  of  his  wife,  for  did  they  not  need  to 
plan  the  loading  of  the  Americano's  cars  with  the  stolen 
Yaqui  ore?  And  we,  fools  for  one  long  night,  laboured 
as  they  had  planned.  But  the  man,  who  is  the  wife's 
father,  is  to  come  again.  We  are  to  watch,  says  the  Lone 
Oak,  and  keep  harm  from  the  man,  and  bring  to  the  Lone 
Oak  the  paper  that  the  man  will  leave  on  a  rock.  We 
are  not  always  fools,  Dolores,  for  we  will  bring  the  paper 
to  the  elders.  It  may  have  to  do  with  the  pay  at  the 
Great  Stack  for  this  treasure  which  they  have  stolen." 

"Bring  the  man,  too!"  she  said.  "Bring  him,  since 
he  likes  walking  in  the  Yaqui  country,  so  we  may  cut 
off  the  soles  of  his  feet.  And  as  for  the  Lone  Oak,  you 
may  find  him  with  his  reward  already."  From  her 
rebosa,  sheathed  in  leather  next  her  warm  burden,  she 
drew  her  knife  and  showed  them  the  blade.  "I  left 
him  at  his  mine,"  she  said.  "But  go.  Make  sure." 

Chagre  with  ten  of  the  warriors  returned  and  found  Krag 
ying  on  his  back,  with  his  eyes  open.  Eyes  and  eyelids 


284  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

were  all  that  had  power  of  motion;  the  soul  yet  kept  its 
windows  open,  and  peered  out  musingly.  He  looked 
up  at  the  softest  of  blue  skies.  His  senses  were  softened 
in  the  sweet  blessedness  of  rest.  In  the  deep  blue  he 
seemed  to  read  one  word  written  against  him.  But  he 
contemplated  it  with  eyes  serene  and  a  peaceful  smile. 
The  word  stood  for  the  crime  he  had  most  loathed,  which 
had  made  him  despise  his  species.  Now  he  saw  it  written 
against  himself  —  Futility ! 

He  had  been  as  relentless  as  Fate,  as  remorseless  as 
stone.  He  had  given  years,  diabolic  calculation,  a 
patience  unmatched  in  hell.  And  he  lay  here  defeated, 
and  yet  by  no  failure  in  calculation,  by  no  unvanquished 
circumstance,  by  no  thing  of  flesh,  by  no  fear  of  God. 
He  lay  here  defeated  by  a  spark  of  simple  decency  in  his 
own  heart,  which  for  all  his  incarnate  cunning  he  had 
not  foreseen.  The  structure  of  his  villainy  was  ashes. 
From  the  burning  had  come  the  murderess  with  her 
knife  —  Futility !  But  he  saw  that  it  was  the  name  of 
his  mansion  in  the  skies,  and  he  believed  that  he  was 
going  home. 

When  the  Yaquis  came  so  that  they  could  look  down 
on  his  face,  they  saw  the  calm,  white  peace  on  his  brow, 
and  he  smiled  up  at  them.  After  all,  judgment  was 
matter  for  the  elders,  they  thought,  for  they  were  troub- 
led within  themselves  as  they  met  the  kind  gray  eyes. 
They  were  simple  warriors,  and  it  should  be  as  though 
they  had  come  upon  a  wounded  friend. 

To  each  chieftain,  and  as  many  others  as  he  could, 
Krag  had  taught  such  first  aid  measures  as  were  possible 
in  the  field,  especially  the  staunching  of  wounds  and 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  285 

aseptic  dressings;  and  now  Chagre,  with  awkward 
diffidence  because  of  the  eyes  of  the  master,  recited 
those  lessons  by  performance. 

For  two  days  Krag  lay,  not  moving,  the  mountain  under 
him,  the  sky  above,  with  eleven  Indians  for  nurses. 
Then,  on  a  litter  of  boughs  and  thongs,  they  bore  him 
by  easy  stages  across  the  sierra,  to  his  own  hut  in  the 
distant  village  of  Chihuitl.  The  elders,  and  many  of 
the  tribe,  prodded  by  the  insidious  barb  of  a  woman's 
tongue,  were  gathered  there  already.  Chagre  and  his 
ten  braves  kept  them  from  the  litter,  but  the  wounded 
man  felt  menace  and  static  hate  in  the  air. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

Maisie 

SHE  stood  on  the  eerie  crest  of  the   barranca,  as 
Krag  had  so  often  done,  and  gazed  over  into  the 
ravine  opposite,  scarred  now  by   the  ugly   mine 
buildings,  and  far  down  to  the  edge  of  the  mountain 
brook,  where  they  had  camped  that  last  time  so  long 
ago.     The  narrow  beach  was    obliterated    by   railroad 
tracks  and  freight  cars  and  smutty    ore   siftings.     All 
the  past  was  smeared  over  by  a  mean  present. 

Five  years  had  put  a  ripening  plumpness  on  Maisie, 
and  as  she  stood  wind-blown,  high  above  the  wild  canon, 
she  was  still  a  pleasing,  girlish  figure,  though  seemingly  a 
bit  of  another  girl,  a  rounded,  rosy  cheeked,  Highland  lass 
sort  of  a  girl,  just  turned  a  woman.  But  a  gravity  seemed 
to  hallow  the  once  joyous,  vibrant  being.  The  gravity 
was  about  the  mouth  that  used  to  smile  and  laugh  in 
shy  eagerness  to  be  on  happy  terms  with  every  living 
creature,  and  one  was  smitten  with  tenderness  now  be- 
cause of  the  bright  red  lips  that  smiled  very  sweetly, 
very  bravely.  The  big  blue  eyes  were  grave,  too,  and 
deep  in  them  was  a  settled  sorrow,  grown  there  from 
keenest  pain  that  changed  with  the  years  to  wistfulness. 
The  long  lashes  were  moist  as  she  tried  to  decide  exactly 
where  it  was  that  Jim  had  put  up  her  tent  that  day. 

286 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  287 

She  believed  she  had  come  to  realize  the  loneliness  of 
her  husband's  heart,  and  the  pathos  of  it  was  the  more 
awful  because  she  alone  might  have  filled  that  yearning, 
and  yet  did  not.  Her  love  was  not  then  informed  with 
the  understanding  that  thinking  of  him,  always  thinking 
of  him,  had  since  brought  to  her. 

Her  abstraction  gave  her  father  the  opportunity,  while 
her  back  was  turned,  to  place  the  receipt  on  the  desig- 
nated rock,  and  cover  it  with  a  stone. 

"  That  scenery  ain't  so  interesting,  is  it,  May?  "  he  said, 
though  not  without  a  constraint  that  might  have  passed 
for  gentleness.  "  Come,  let's  be  getting  back."  A  sen- 
sitiveness about  his  spine  kept  him  aware  of  unseen  eyes, 
perhaps  of  levelled  rifles. 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Maisie,  turning.     "You  must  be 

hungry,  and  just  to  give  me  this  walk  too." 
***** 

It  was  as  though  a  torpid  peon,  no  more  to  be  noticed 
than  a  lizard,  were  sunning  himself  on  the  cathedral 
steps  in  the  plaza.  In  Mexican  towns  there  were  always 
torpid  peons.  One  did  not  speak  to  them,  unless  to  have 
an  errand  done.  If  the  peon  spoke,  it  was  subserviently, 
with  bared  head.  He  could  be  dismissed  with  a  gesture, 
a  centavo,  or  nothing  at  all.  The  seeming  peon  in  tat- 
tered mania  so  stamped  the  mountain  wilderness  with 
the  local  colour  of  a  Mexican  town  that  Hacklette  forgot 
for  the  instant  that  he  was  alone  with  Maisie  in  the  sierras. 
Hacklette  frowned,  to  let  the  native  know  that  any  begging 
was  useless.  The  man  detached  himself  as  a  chameleon 
from  the  gray  rock  where  he  was  lying,  and  stood  in 
their  path. 


288  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"He  say  you  come  'long."  The  native  spoke  in  apolo- 
getic English,  yet  with  naive  pride  in  his  English. 

Hacklette  did  not  feel  the  weight  of  the  truth.  He 
shook  his  head  curtly.  He  was  not  to  be  bothered. 
But  Maisie  in  a  pang  of  yearning  thought  of  Alice, 
her  precious  darling,  left  behind  with  the  smelter  ladies. 

The  native  involuntarily  put  a  hand  to  his  sombrero 
brim.  "Plees  senor,  come  'long." 

And  this  was  capture  by  Indians!  Hacklette  realized 
it  from  his  daughter's  white  face. 

Other  mania  and  leather-clad  figures  gathered  near. 
They,  too,  might  have  been  peons,  because  of  their  meek 
and  insignificant  garb,  but  their  skin  was  clearer,  more 
copper  than  brown,  and  their  black  eyes  were  quick  and 
intelligent,  and  they  were  taller,  and  deep  chested,  of 
seasoned,  magnificent  physique.  Yet,  try  as  he  might, 
Hacklette  could  see  only  peons.  Because  no  brandished 
weapon  gave  him  thought  for  his  life,  he  thought  of  his 
outraged  dignity.  But  the  first  protest  on  his  lips  died 
there.  It  would  not  do  to  invoke  Krag's  name,  and 
Maisie  there  to  hear.  Then  the  dumfounding  conviction 
came  that  Krag  had  ordered  this. 

Maisie  touched  his  arm.  "We  must  go  with  them," 
she  said.  "They  are  Yaquis.  And  father,"  she  whis- 
pered, her  lips  tense  and  white,  "when  you  have  the 
chance,  give  me  your  pistol." 

As  if  answering  the  despair  in  her  thought,  one  of  the 
braves  drew  near,  passed  his  hands  over  her  indignant 
father,  and  brought  from  his  hip  pocket  the  short  bar- 
relled revolver  concealed  there.  Yet,  instead  of  keeping 
it,  he  handed  the  weapon  to  Maisie,  and  motioned  to 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  289 

the  Yaqui  who  spoke  a  little  English.  The  latter  was  a 
pacifico  who  when  a  boy  had  taken  service  as  house 
mozo  with  an  American  family  of  Hermosillo,  and  since 
had  worked  mostly  under  Gringo  bosses.  He  was  now 
Coyote's  runner  and  spy  between  the  sierras  and  the 
Great  Stack. 

"Tell  her,  Fesco,"  said  the  brave  to  the  interpreter, 
"she  must  come  too,  and  we  are  sorry.  Tell  her  the 
wounded  Yaqui  she  helped  one  time  is  Chief  Tetibite 
now,  and  to  be  not  afraid,  and  with  the  pistola  to  kill  the 
first  Yaqui  who  comes  near  her."  And  Fesco  told  her, 
while  Hacklette  hung  on  his  words,  dreading  to  hear 
the  name  of  Kr  g. 

"An'  manana"  added  Fesco  of  his  own  accord,  "there 
is  one  mula.  The  senorita  ride  him."  Krag's  mule 
it  was,  left  at  the  goatherd's  hut. 

At  the  goatherd's,  too,  when  they  came  there,  Maisie 
found  one  of  her  own  sex,  a  mother  likewise,  waiting 
for  them.  More  like  a  great  bedraggled  cat,  with  blink- 
ing eyes  whose  pupils  grew  luminous  and  exultant  as 
she  saw  Maisie,  was  the  woman  crouching  in  wait  there. 
Maisie  was  so  glad  to  see  a  woman  at  all  that  at  first 
she  had  no  feeling  of  real  peril  in  this  woman's  malignant 
triumph. 

The  woman  sat  sluggishly  in  the  hut's  door-way,  and 
a  two-year-old  boy,  naked,  lean,  of  silken  coppery  skin, 
played  about  her.  She  did  not  rise  when  she  saw  there 
were  two  captives  instead  of  one,  but  as  they  plodded 
wearily  nearer,  the  Yaquis  behind,  her  dilating  pupils 
did  the  part  of  eager  greeting. 

"You  the  Americano' 's  daughter?"  she  demanded  in 


290  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

broken  Spanish,  avidly  making  sure  first  of  Maisie's 
identity. 

Maisie,  on  the  arm  of  her  frowning,  travel-stained 
father,  had  stopped  before  the  door  to  look  at  the  child. 
The  sight  was  vaguely  comforting.  Where  there  were 
little  children,  there  must  be  heart  strings  attuned  to 
humanity,  she  thought. 

Nodding  to  reply  that  she  was  indeed  the  Americano 's 
daughter  —  in  other  words,  the  pale-faced  girl  for  whom 
the  Lone  Oak  twisted  the  nose  of  the  daughter  of  a  chief, 
for  whom  Chief  Tetibite  on  occasion  was  as  stone  against 
his  tribe  —  nodding  unsuspectingly  to  all  this,  Maisie 
stooped  and  cupped  a  soft  palm  under  the  baby  boy's 
chin.  The  little  fellow  looked  at  her,  wonder-eyed; 
then  imperiously  gripped  her  sleeve,  to  be  taken  up. 

"Thou,  too,  rat!"  cried  the  mother,  snatching  the 
child  and  bringing  him  a  box  on  the  head.  Maisie  re- 
coiled before  the  malevolence  of  the  look  darted  on 
herself. 

Hacklette  listened  uneasily  as  the  Yaqui  woman 
flayed  Maisie  in  her  Spanish  jargon.  He  understood 
nothing,  but  when  have  two  women  ever  met  who  did 
not  contrive  speech?  And  Maisie  had  not  forgotten 
her  Spanish.  Hacklette  listened  for  that  which  might 
sound  like  Krag's  name.  One  need  was  uppermost  in 
his  flurried  state,  and  this  was  to  bring  Maisie  through 
their  adventure  ignorant  of  Krag's  existence.  He  gave 
agonized  attention  to  the  Yaqui  woman's  strange  rage, 
yet  made  naught  of  the  gurgling  menace  that  rasped  at 
times  into  a  curdling  snarl.  Then  he  began  to  wonder 
at  the  rage  itself,  and  to  ask  himself  the  why  of  it,  for 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  291 

surely  the  two  had  never  met  before.  A  denser  intel- 
ligence than  Hacklette's  would  have  known.  The  woman 
was  jealous.  Hacklette  guessed  that  there  was  a  man. 
What  man?  Inspiration  flashed  on  him  then.  He 
recalled  his  own  scornful  jibe  at  Krag.  So  it  was  true! 
And  this  was  the  woman.  Surely,  surely!  And  the 
child? 

At  the  moment  the  child  slipped  from  his  mother's 
fingers,  and  ran  and  clung  again  to  Maisie's  skirts,  while 
Maisie  rested  her  hand  on  his  head.  This  time  it  was 
Hacklette,  with  a  look  of  sickened  horror,  who  tore  the 
child  away,  as  though  he  were  unclean  and  Maisie  were 
defiled  by  his  touch. 

"Father!"  Maisie  cried  in  protest. 

Hacklette  seized  her  arm.  "Come  away  from  it," 
he  muttered  gruffly.  "Come  here,  into  the  hut  —  Now 
then,  what  was  that  woman  saying  to  you?" 

"Poor  thing,"  sighed  Maisie,  "it's  only  because  she 
can't  bear  the  sight  of  an  honest  woman.  Of  course  it 
hurt  her  because  her  boy  seemed  to  turn  from  her  to  me, 
though  I  suppose  this  pretty  dress  —  pretty  now,  isn't 
it?  —  caught  his  eye,  or  my  gold  belt  buckle,  or  some- 
thing or  other." 

"What  did  she  say?    Who  is  the " 

"Why,  you  saw  her;  she  was  raving,  that's  all.  Even 
a  poor  Indian  girl  may  be  crazed  by  shame.  And  she 
did  try  to  kill  him,  she  said,  but  now  he  is  getting  well, 
and  of  course  that  makes  her,  being  an  Indian,  so  much 
more  bitter.  .  .  .  Why  father,  you  look 

"Killed?"  he  repeated.  "  Almost  killed?  Who  did 
she  almost  kill?" 


292  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Why,  the  man,"  said  Maisie  a  little  impatiently. 
"We  don't  know  any  Yaquis,  so  what  difference  can  it 
make?" 

"No,  oh,  no  —  no,  of  course  not." 

"Yet  she  told  me  his  name,  too." 

"What?" 

"Yes,  and  I  remember  it  because  somehow  it  pictured 
to  me  a  desolate,  tragic,  storm-swept  figure;  the  dim 
outline  of  a  man,  of  course.  These  Indians"  —  she 
sighed  again.  "How  we  should  pity  ourselves  when 
nature  utters  her  poetry  by  the  unconscious  tongues  of 
her  own  children.  The  Lone  Oak,  father,  that's  the  name. 
The  Lone  Oak.  Oh,"  she  cried  in  wistful  exasperation, 
"you  would  be  so  much  better  company,  father,  if  you 
had  the  —  the  heart  —  to  see  things!" 

Hacklette  was  seeing  so  well  with  his  intellect  that  his 
tongue  was  leaden.  His  relief  was  overpowering,  for 
he  saw  that  the  Lone  Oak  was  Krag's  Indian  name,  and 
Mr.  Hacklette  blessed  Indian  poesy  for  that  cloak.  Also 
he  saw  a  by-path,  though  a  loathsome  one,  out  of  the 
slough.  For  if  Maisie  should  learn  that  Krag  lived, 
then  Krag,  revealed  to  her  as  the  Lone  Oak,  would  be 
worse  than  dead  through  the  damning  horror  of  a  squaw's 
claim.  But,  in  quick,  unfamiliar  pity  for  his  daughter, 
Hacklette  hoped  to  evade  a  recourse  so  disgusting. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  commanded,  "I  want  you  to  keep 
away  from  her  and  —  from  that  brat  of  hers." 

"But  she  is  going  with  us,  father,"  Maisie  protested. 
"They — the  old  men  of  the  tribe — are  going  to  hold  some 
kind  of  trial,  and  she  says  they  will  give  the  man  —  the 
Lone  Oak  —  a  chance  to  right  the  wrong  done  her,  or  — 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  293 

or  —  "  Maisie  shuddered,  and  her  father,  to  his  credit, 
shuddered  also. 

But  the  Hacklette  intellect  was  soon  at  work  again. 
Why,  he  asked  himself,  had  not  the  Yaqui  woman  revealed 
the  identity  of  the  Lone  Oak  to  Maisie?  Hacklette  took 
hope.  The  woman's  purposes,  like  his  own,  required  that 
Krag  and  Maisie  should  not  meet.  Hacklette  believed 
he  knew  why.  That  hideous  star  chamber  of  old  men 
would  be  less  likely  to  prevail  on  Krag  to  take  the  Yaqui 
woman  if  Krag  knew  that  Maisie  were  near. 

Hacklette  had  found  an  ally,  he  ruefully  thought,  in 
this  squaw.  But  what  vengeance,  he  asked  himself 
again  and  again,  did  the  woman  in  her  tigerish  hate 
intend  for  Maisie? 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

"Artless  Persuasion" 

EACH,  with  his  scrape  under  him,  as  a  sheik   of 
Arabia  would  have  his  rug,  the  old  men  sat 
in  council,  sombre  and  cross-legged,  under  the 
hadow   of   the   peaks.      During   three    mornings   and 
two    afternoons    they    had    sat,    but    stopped    always 
to   go    to    the    oil    pots,  before    the    voracious    young 
braves  should  fish  out  the  larger  bits  of  goat  flesh  or  wild 
goose.     No  doubts  afflicted  them  as  to  the  guilt  of  the 
Lone  Oak.     It  was  the  punishment  that  taxed  their 
wisdom.     For    punishment    must    be    tinctured    with 
reward.     And  to  lash  a  man  with  a  laurel  wreath  was 
difficult.     Solomon,  Daniel,  and  all  the  sachems  were 
never  so  beset. 

Treachery  alone  was  simple.  Gratitude  was  not  quite 
so  simple,  yet  simple.  But  to  take  life  for  the  one 
and  show  the  other,  that  was  complex,  because  a  dead 
man  lies  cold  to  thanks,  and  the  Yaquis  knew  nothing 
of  monuments  and  statuary. 

Accordingly  the  old  men  would  not  cut  off  the  soles  of 
Krag's  feet,  and  gouge  out  his  eyes,  and  pad  his  hands 
and  knees  in  leather,  and  leave  him  thus  in  the  desert, 
an  untethered  burro  near  him,  laden  with  tortillas  and  a 
filled  water  jar,  and  a  tinkling  bell  around  its  neck. 

294 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  295 

They  would  not,  because  when  the  victim  drags  himself 
near  the  tinkling  bell,  the  beast  edges  off  to  crop  tumble- 
weeds  elsewhere,  and  when  the  beast  dies,  the  tinkling 
of  the  bell  dies  also,  even  though  the  victim  still  lives  to 
listen  for  it.  Yet  that  was  good  for  simple  treachery. 

Nor  would  the  old  men  give  Krag  the  Veta  Negru 
for  saving  the  tribe,  because  that  would  enrich  him  who 
had  sought  peace  with  their  foes  to  possess  the  stolen 
mine.  Yet  that  was  none  too  good  in  simple  gratitude. 

Then  came  great  Cajemi's  daughter  of  the  serpent 
tongue.  She  came,  her  full  breast  heaving  from  the 
cruel  climb  up  the  mountain,  her  arms  trembling  under 
the  weight  of  her  child.  She  had  come  painfully,  partly  by 
night  as  well  as  day,  while  the  two  white  captives  behind  her 
slept.  Her  guaraches,  or  cowhide  sandals,  were  rotting 
from  her  feet,  as  wandering  by  stealth  and  consuming 
hate  had  worked  their  ravages  on  her.  But  she  had 
bathed  in  the  pool  of  a  cascade,  and  she  had  washed 
her  poor,  scarlet-striped  petticoats  and  white  chemise, 
and  her  black  hair,  streaming  and  wind  dried,  hung 
luxuriantly  over  her  shoulders.  Passion's  greed,  too, 
was  reawakening  in  the  smouldering  jet  of  her  eyes,  so 
that  somewhat  of  the  old  opulence  of  her  sleek,  barbaric 
beauty  was  come  back  on  her.  She  had  dipped  the 
child  as  well  in  the  cold,  blue  waters  of  the  pool,  and 
when  she  set  him  down  in  the  commons  of  the  village, 
his  soft,  satin  skin  gave  back  a  sunbeam  slanting  off  the 
peak  in  the  living  tints  of  flame  playing  on  burnished 
copper. 

She  stood  blinking  for  a  time  over  the  circle  of  shaggy 
gray  heads.  She  looked  first  for  the  Lone  Oak,  a  quick- 


296  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

ening  in  her  sleepy  eyes,  a  tinge  of  rust  under  the  bright, 
tawny  skin.  The  Lone  Oak  was  not  before  the  council. 
She  saw  him  nowhere  in  the  village  out  of  doors,  certainly 
not  among  the  women  squatted  round  the  steaming  pots, 
nor  among  the  idling  warriors  or  playing  children.  Her 
half-closed  eyes  rested  on  his  hut,  where  Chagre  sat  in 
the  door- way.  She  had  a  cat-like  curiosity  to  know  how 
deeply  her  claws  had  sunk.  The  Oak,  then,  for  all  his 
great,  silent  strength,  lay  prostrate. 

The  old  men  were  aware  that  she  was  there.  They 
hoped  she  brought  that  which  might  help  them  in  their 
quandary,  but  they  gave  her  no  heed  until  she 
spoke.  When  she  did,  it  was  with  a  virago's  scorn. 
Why  were  they  so  long?  Was  it  more  proof  they 
wanted? 

The  elder  of  San  Marcial  shook  his  head.  This  elder 
and  all  his  village  had  been  driven  long  since  from  their 
Rio  Matape  homes  by  the  Mexicans.  No,  they  needed 
no  more  proof,  said  the  elder  with  chiding  gravity.  The 
Lone  Oak  had  told  them  all,  and  enough  was  as  Dolores 
had  charged  against  him.  At  points  there  was  conflict, 
yes,  but  the  Lone  Oak  would  not  name  the  only  one  who 
might  say  his  words  were  true. 

This  was  Chief  Tetibite  that  Krag  would  not  name, 
for  Krag  understood  that  the  chief  himself  had  much  to 
answer  for,  when  he  should  return  from  his  supposedly 
traitorous  pow-wow  with  the  Mexicans.  Krag  would 
not  imperil  further  his  friend  and  accomplice.  Yet 
he  had  told  them  that  the  mine  was  indeed  the  Veto, 
Negra.  He  told  them  how  he  had  found  it,  by  meddling 
where  meddling  was  sacrilege,  by  meddling  in  the 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  297 

secrets  of  treasure  which  the  tribe  had  guarded  as  its 
life  and  salvation  from  the  days  of  the  Spaniard. 

"And  he  told  you,"  asked  Dolores,"  that  he  stole " 

"Of  the  mine's  silver,  of  the  Yaqui  war  funds?" 
The  elder  shrugged  his  shoulders,  for  did  they  need  to 
hear  that  from  the  Lone  Oak,  when  forty  warriors  had 
carried  the  sacked  ore  for  him? 

"But  how  much?"  persisted  Dolores  in  her  gurgling 
whine.  "He  told  you  how  much  he  stole? —  Hunk, 
look!" —  She  flung  Maisie's  receipt,  like  a  bone,  into  the 
circle.  "See  on  the  paper,  the  money  that  is  written 
there." 

An  elder,  priest  educated,  told  off  the  numerals,  one 
by  one:  a  2,  a  3,  and  four  naughts.  He  told  them  off 
one  by  one  because  he  could  not  formulate  the  sum 
they  stood  for.  That  was  beyond  arithmetic.  But 
they  pondered  it  ruefully,  like  decrepit  old  men  robbed  of 
a  precious  hoard.  They  could,  at  least,  think  in  terms 
of  things  that  cost  untold  sums,  of  belching  cannon  to 
kill  one  hundred  Mexicans  at  a  loading,  of  impregnable 
fortresses  cresting  their  mountain  heights,  of  uniformed 
ranks  and  epaulettes.  These  the  Lone  Oak  had  stolen. 

"'Twas  paid  to  the  woman  that  was  his  wife,"  said 
Dolores,  her  voice  purring  voluptuously.  "Ay,  there 
is  her  name.  Ask  Fesco  when  he  comes.  Ask  the 
woman  herself,  and  her  father  who  is  the  Americano, 
for  they  also  are  coming.  Ask  yourselves,  if  she  does  not 
keep  the  money  for  the  Lone  Oak  until  he  goes  back  to 
her.  Ask  yourselves,  and  you  will  say  that  the  Lone  Oak 
waits  among  us  only  until  the  Veta  Negra  is  his  own  by 
the  peace  which  he  sends  Tetibite  to  beg  of  the  Mexicans. 


298  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

Ask  yourselves,  for  you  need  too  much  of  woman's  help, 
my  simple  fathers.  Or  if  I  must,  I  will  tell  you  this: 
hasten  your  work  on  the  Lone  Oak,  before  our  splendid 
chief  brings  a  Mexican  army  to  Chihuitl.  Oo-ee,  you 
do  not  know  Tetibite  has  gone  to  the  capital!  Ay,  it  is 
true.  He  went  from  Cocorito  to  Mexico  City.  As  guest 
or  prisoner,  no  matter;  either  is  the  tribe's  shame.  O  my 
fathers,  have  done,  then,  have  done  with  the  one  traitor 
of  the  two  in  your  hands,  while  your  hands  are  free!" 

They  listened  because  they  must.  They  were  saddened 
because  she  talked  at  all,  and  they  were  saddened  because 
she  talked  what  seemed  to  them  truth.  When  she  ceased, 
they  seemed  like  gray  beards  interrupted  in  learned  con- 
verse by  a  child.  They  took  up  again  the  thread  of  their 
deliberations,  unmindful  that  she  had  spun  a  new  thread 
into  the  web. 

The  old,  muddied  eyes  of  the  elder  of  San  Marcial 
peered  gropingly  around  the  circle.  "Let  the  Lone  Oak 
be  brought,"  he  said.  They  should  wait;  they  should 
hear  the  Lone  Oak  once  more.  The  elder  of  the  Mesquite 
Forest,  the  oldest,  most  weazend  there,  and  by  that  token 
the  patriarch  of  the  council  board,  nodded  his  head. 
The  elder  of  Chihuitl  burned  his  finger  and  thumb  on  his 
cigarette,  and  required  a  fresh  one  from  the  ragged  som- 
brero of  the  aged  man  on  his  left.  Of  another  he  asked, 
with  a  grunt  and  a  stately  manner,  a  light;  and  mean- 
time the  Lone  Oak  was  brought  before  them. 

Krag  could  walk,  though  painfully,  and  stout  Chagre 
kept  at  his  elbow.  Two  warrior  nurses  bore  the  empty 
litter,  and  set  it  across  two  bundles  of  fagots  within  the 
council  circle.  The  wounded  man  was  clothed  in  khaki 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  299 

and  linen.  He  was  coatless,  and  as  white  as  his  shirt 
was  the  superb  neck  rising  from  the  open  collar. 
The  face  in  its  clean,  squared  outline  was  bloodless. 
The  once  furrowed  brow  was  like  marble,  and  as 
smooth  as  marble.  No  hint  of  the  old  glint  of  steel 
was  left  in  the  piercing  eyes.  That  piercing  quality 
of  them  was  gone  too.  The  gray  was  the  soft  gray  of 
kindliness,  and  yet  there  was  a  benign  austerity,  a  look 
of  pain  and  rebuke,  in  the  eyes.  The  white  man  did 
not  wish  these  old  children,  of  whom  he  was  fond,  to  do 
aught  to  make  them  question  their  wisdom  afterward. 
One  sort  of  remorse,  which  was  that  of  ingratitude, 
would  hurt  them,  and  he  did  not  want  them  hurt.  As  he 
stepped  into  their  circle,  and  sat  upon  the  litter,  a  certain 
hopefulness  that  they  would  find  their  right  minds 
brightened  in  his  friendly  survey  of  them. 

Dolores  stirred  restively  where  she  stood  outside  the 
circle.  He  felt  her  eyes  on  him  like  a  waiting  snake's. 
It  had  all  been  unreasoning  jealousy  for  her  child,  he 
told  himself,  and  one  pities  the  blind.  He  met  her  look, 
and  smiled.  But  murderous  waywardness  must  be 
restrained;  she  read  that  clearly  in  his  smile. 

Krag's  hope  for  their  right  minds  grew  when  he  saw 
that  the  word  was  with  the  elder  of  San  Marcial.  Krag 
had  brought  him  through  the  small-pox,  and  that  mottled 
and  pitted  Solon  from  the  Matape  made  gratitude  a 
shrine  for  Quixotic  worship. 

"The  Americano,"  said  he,  "the  father  of  the  woman 
who  was  your  wife,  is  captured."  Krag  started.  In- 
stantly the  kind  eyes  were  shot  with  anger.  "They 
bring  him  here,"  said  the  elder. 


300  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Then,"  said  Krag,  in  a  voice  weakened  and  hollow, 
"you  can  free  him  the  quicker." 

"They  bring  him  here,"  repeated  the  elder,  "and  I 
say  now  to  the  council,  let  him  stand  in  the  Lone  Oak's 
place.  He  is  as  guilty  as  the  Lone  Oak,  but  to  that  man 
we  owe  nothing." 

"What  you  owe  the  Lone  Oak,  then,"  Krag  interposed, 
quick  to  humour  them  on  that  turn,  "pay  what  you 
owe  the  Lone  Oak  by  saving  his  honour  with  the  Ameri- 
cano. Send  the  man  safely  back,  and  you  owe  the  Lone 
Oak  nothing." 

The  old  man  of  San  Marcial  had  crinkled  his  forehead 
terribly  to  silence  the  fateful  words,  but  they  were  seized 
on  already  by  his  brethren  of  the  council.  Even  in  this 
quandary  the  Lone  Oak  had  calmly  pointed  the  way  out. 
In  a  breath  he  had  showed  them  how  to  be  quit  of  the 
debt  to  himself,  and  relieved  the  tangle  of  all  vexation. 
They  pledged  themselves  to  the  Americano's  safety, 
whereupon  the  case  became  one  of  simple  treachery, 
and  susceptible  of  dosing  with  precedent. 

Chagre  put  his  brown,  thick-fingered  hands  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  condemned,  and  forced  him,  with  the 
slow  gentleness  of  iron  strength,  to  his  back  on  the  litter. 
Something  never  thought  of  before,  yet  recognized 
as  one  recognizes  one's  old  hat,  caught  familiarly 
in  Krag's  mind:  the  touch  was  an  executioner's. 
Chagre's  Indian  face  was  —  an  Indian's.  Deep- 
seamed  flesh  overspread  jutting  knobs  of  skull;  black 
beads  of  eyes  glowed  in  bony  sockets;  teeth  vented  a 
hissing  rage. 

"Do  it,  Chagre,"  Krag  spoke  to  him  reproachfully, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  301 

"but  do  it  without  anger  against  me."  He  supposed 
that  they  would  begin  with  his  eyes. 

The  Indian  head  over  him  blackened  at  the  words,  and 
the  palm  of  Chagre's  hand,  horned  from  the  machete's 
grip,  closed  over  his  forehead. 

"And  Cajemi's  daughter?"  It  was  a  wheedling  voice, 
reminding  him  of  clotted  cream. 

Dolores  had  stolen  into  the  circle,  and  was  looking 
down  on  him.  Her  body  was  rigid  in  devouring  intensity. 

"What  of  Cajemi's  daughter,  my  fathers?" 

She  gazed  down  on  the  Lone  Oak  as  one  already  dead. 
This  her  ferocity  had  demanded,  because  of  her  child 
robbed  of  a  supposed  birthright.  But  that  passion  was 
sated  now  in  anticipation,  and  another  craved  gratifica- 
tion. The  whelp  of  the  tigress  was  weaned.  With 
the  cooling  of  the  animal  maternal  instinct,  old  fires  were 
kindling  anew.  She  saw  again  the  man  who  had  taken 
her  nose  between  his  fingers.  Coming  was  the  woman, 
for  whom  he  had  done  that  thing.  Where,  then,  would 
be  the  Indian  girl's  triumph,  if  she  was  not  to  flaunt  the 
man  before  that  other  woman  as  the  Indian  girl's  own? 

"I  have  told  you,  my  fathers,  of  the  shame  that  drove 
your  old  chief's  daughter  from  her  tribe,"  she  moaned, 
cunningly  letting  sobs  bear  her  plaint.  "I  have  told 
you  what  brings  her  back.  Say  now,  must  she  go  again, 
hiding  her  face,  because  her  own  people  have  not  the 
pity  to  right  her  wrong?  This  man  — 

The  aged  sagamore  of  the  Mesquite  Forest  stopped  her, 
"Enough,  Dolores,"  he  said,  his  shrewd  old  eyes  mocking 
her.  "We  understand  that  you  want  the  man." 

The  deep  rose  flamed  red  beneath  her  skin,  but  before 


302  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

she  could  retort  the  elder  of  San  Marcial  took  the  word, 
speaking  coaxingly.  He  saw  in  her  plea  one  other  chance 
to  save  Krag  from  the  extreme  conclusion  of  their  logic. 
What  she  said  offered  a  premise  for  a  different  logic, 
and  he  worked  it  out  subtly.  While  he  spoke,  he  kept 
both  court  and  condemned  in  mind,  for  his  task  was  to 
win  both  over. 

It  began,  he  reminded  them,  when  the  pains  of  dying 
had  so  blurred  old  Cajemi's  craft  that  he  babbled  secrets 
to  a  woman.  Folly  thrived,  as  Cajemi  might  have  known, 
for  then  came  Dolores  hawking  her  wares,  hallooing  that 
she  would  give  the  secrets  with  herself,  and  who  would 
have  her?  The  Lone  Oak,  she  comes  now  and  wails. 
And  because  the  tribe  wanted  the  Lone  Oak  to  take  a 
wife  among  them,  and  so  turn  a  tribesman,  she  thought 
to  be  the  tribe's  lure  and  true  daughter  in  this,  and  gave 
ear  to  the  white  man's  promises.  Here  the  crow's  feet 
about  the  eyes  of  the  forest  philosopher  grew  alive,  and 
his  mouth  twitched,  so  that  he  shaded  his  face  behind 
his  hand.  He  of  San  Marcial  proceeded  gravely.  At 
last,  he  said,  she  gave  faith  to  the  promises  of  the  Lone 
Oak,  and  for  the  tribe's  sake,  she  yielded.  But  having 
got  from  her  one  precious  tribal  secret,  which  was  the  Veta 
Negra,  the  Lone  Oak  was  content  to  forego  the  others 
rather  than  make  good  his  word  to  the  girl. 

The  elder  added  then  what  evidence  there  was  to  sus- 
tain the  case.  Dolores  had  fled,  but  who  should  know 
whither  she  had  gone  if  not  the  Lone  Oak?  Who  would 
go  to  her,  perhaps  hoping  for  other  secrets,  if  not  he? 
And  that  he  did  go,  once  at  least,  was  certain,  when  the 
child  was  near  to  death. 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  303 

Krag  lay  quietly,  a  little  frown  playing  between  his 
eyes.  He  had  heard  it  all  already,  but  not  quite  all  that 
was  to  come.  In  this  that  was  to  come  the  mercy- 
courting  lawgiver  of  San  Marcial  sought  the  harmo- 
nizing efficacy  of  his  Indian's  logic.  The  Lone  Oak, 
he  said,  was  giving  his  life  to  keep  faith  with  a  white  man. 
Let  him,  then,  hold  his  honour  as  high  for  a  poor  Yaqui 
woman.  Let  him  do  that,  and  the  council  would  trust 
him  thereafter  as  true  to  his  word  in  all  things.  They 
would  know  him  for  a  tribesman,  and  know  their  secret 
in  fit  hands.  Else,  scorning  a  chieftain's  daughter,  the 
Lone  Oak  must  find  in  that  pilfered  secret  his  fate.  Let 
the  Lone  Oak  then  speak. 

Krag  did  not  rise  from  where  he  lay  on  the  litter.  He 
did  not  glance  toward  that  door  of  life  opened  to  him.  He 
had  told  them  already  that  he  owed  Dolores  nothing. 
He  could  only  bid  them  again  to  pause.  They  were 
headstrong,  and  he  would  shield  them  from  ugly  regret. 

He  spoke,  looking  up  at  the  sky,  and  they  heard  him. 
His  voice  sounded  a  long  way  off,  or  was  a  disembodied 
voice,  the  hollow  accents  born  oracle-like  in  mid-air. 

The  council  was  roused  to  stubbornness.  The  hearts 
of  the  old  men  beat  as  the  heart  of  the  tribe,  and  each, 
unknown  to  its  neighbour,  began  to  palpitate  with  mis- 
givings. The  old  men  saw  how  they  had  come  to 
depend  on  the  white  man,  and  fear  left  them  cold  as 
they  beheld  themselves  and  their  tribe,  unschooled  in 
white  men's  craft,  bereft  of  this  white  man,  their  pro- 
tector. They  glanced  mutely  at  one  another  as  though 
they  had  heard  an  oracle  of  doom. 

Yet,  it  seemed,  the  white  man's  craft  was  turned  against 


304  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

them.  No,  surely,  they  must  know  his  loyalty  better 
before  they  could  let  him  live.  Such  guarantee,  they 
believed  in  their  stress  and  blind  groping,  would  issue 
from  his  adoption  into  the  tribe  by  marriage.  A  woman's 
grievance  served  as  a  pretext  of  state,  and  on  it  they 
doggedly  fastened  their  hopes. 

The  elder  of  Chihuitl,  in  his  youth  a  scout  and  in  his 
age  full  of  cunning,  voiced  with  smooth  tongue  their 
common  thought.  His  brother  from  the  Rio  Matape, 
he  said,  had  spoken  words  as  clear  as  the  spring  waters 
of  justice,  and  he  for  one  would  no  believe  that  the  Lone 
Oak  could  spurn  the  pleasant  draught.  For  all  that 
the  Lone  Oak  had  done  for  the  tribe,  they  must  give  him 
yet  a  chance.  They  must  even  plead  with  him.  They 
owed  him  —  and  the  old  man  bent  his  brows  hideously 
round  the  circle  —  the  one  last  plea  in  their  power  to 
make. 

Krag's  eyes,  as  he  heard,  widened  on  the  heavens  above. 
"Tell  them,  Chagre,  to  kill  me  at  once.  I'm  afraid  I 
cannot  bear " 

A  hand  fell  wrathfully  over  his  mouth.  "Do  as  they 
say,  do  as  they  say!"  Chagre  snarled. 

Krag  impatiently  shook  his  head. 

"He  will  not?"  The  elder  of  Chihuitl  swept  the  circle 
with  a  glance,  and  resignedly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Then  — "  he  said,  and  stopped.  His  pause  was  the 
council's  decision. 

The  elder  of  the  Mesquite  Forest,  holding  up  a  finger  for 
the  grunt  and  nod  of  assent  of  the  others,  then  sharply 
clapped  his  hands,  and  gestured  to  the  first  three  young 
braves  who  looked  his  way. 


305 

Withered  grandams  stood  by,  scolding  raucously,  while 
men  robbed  the  fires  under  the  pots.  Into  earthen 
jars  they  scooped  up  the  hottest  coals.  Men,  when  their 
lordly  affairs  demanded,  ever  trod  roughshod  on  woman's 
domestic  convenience.  The  coals  were  heaped  on  the 
ground  within  the  council  circle,  near  the  litter  where 
Krag  lay.  Warriors,  women,  and  children,  noticing 
these  preparations,  gave  over  other  pursuits  to  watch. 
They  fringed  the  circle  of  old  men,  expectant  and  enter- 
tained. Such  occasions  were  of  particular  interest  to 
the  children,  much  as  is  hog-killing  time  on  the  farm 
to  other  children. 

Chagre,  being  so  ordered,  thrust  his  machete  into  the 
coals  with  its  point  under  the  glowing  heap.  On  his 
knees,  his  high  cheek-bones  reddening  like  coals  them- 
selves, he  blew  into  the  mass.  The  women  and  children 
stared  while  the  steel  slowly  took  another  hue,  the  hue 
slowly  deepening  and  spreading  toward  the  handle.  If 
their  eyes  lifted,  they  lifted  to  the  still  form  in  khaki 
and  white  linen  on  its  couch  of  boughs. 

"See'  Chagre's  face,  how  angry  black  it  is,"  said  a 
warrior,  laughing.  "But  fire  does  make  a  machete  soft, 
and  it  is  Chagre's  machete,  poor  boy." 

Gripped  by  Chagre's  knotted  fist,  the  blade  was  slip- 
ping from  the  coals  when  there  came  a  strange  inter- 
ruption that  disappointed  eager  expectancy  and  stirred 
the  elders  to  indignation .  It  was  Dolores,  brushing  her 
way  into  the  circle,  catching  up  Chagre's  serape  from  the 
ground,  and  hurriedly  spreading  it  over  Krag,  so  that 
he  was  covered  from  head  to  foot. 

But  before  the  elders  could  rebuke  her,  she  ran  and 


306  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

stood  before  the  patriarch  of  the  Mes  quite  Forest,  since 
he  was  the  head  man  of  the  council,  and  pointed  back 
along  the  lane  between  the  thatched  huts  to  where 
the  trail  entered  the  village. 

"There,"  she  whispered  excitedly,  "there,  the  captives! 
The  Americano  and  his  daughter,  they  are  coming. 
They  are  here,  but"  —  she  turned  swiftly,  and  pointed 
to  Krag — "he  must  not  see  her.  He  must  not  see  the 
woman  who  was  his  wife.  He  must  not  know  that  she 
is  near.  And  she  —  she  must  not  look  on  his  face  or  hear 
his  voice." 

"This  wench  is  crazy,"  exclaimed  the  village  elder. 

"Don't  you  understand?"  she  urged.  "Why,  why," 
she  laughed  wildly,  "why,  my  fathers,  do  you  not  know 
that  Tetibite  lied  to  the  Lone  Oak?  Lied  —  yes,  Tetibite 
—  telling  him  that  the  woman  was  married  to  another 
man.  It  was  a  lie,  because  Tetibite  could  not  bear  to 
see  the  love  of  the  Lone  Oak  go  even  to  a  woman.  Yet, 
though  he  believes  the  woman  lost  to  him,  the  Lone  Oak 
welcomes  the  torture  rather  than  take  another  woman. 
Now  do  you  know  that  he  must  not  learn  that  she  is 
near?  Once  he  sees  her " 

" he  will  have  no  ears  for  our  prayer.  Is  that  it, 

Dolores?" 

"Yes,  and  no  flesh  to  feel,  no  bones  to  break,  no  blood 
to  —  oh,  dig  his  grave  and  have  done,  unless " 

The  patriarch  waved  his  hand.  "Go,  Dolores,"  he 
said,  "and  see  to  it.  Take  care  that  she  does  not  come 
near." 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

Treasure  Trove 

OH,"  EXCLAIMED  Maisie  breathlessly,  swaying 
from  the  climb  up  the  precipitous  trail,  "  isn't 
it — beautiful — up  here !  See,  father,  you  come 
on  it  so  suddenly,  like  discovering  a  cool  grotto  among 
the  rocks,  only,"  she  added,  gazing  up  at  the  peaks, 
"each  rock  is  a  mountain.  Look,  those  clustering  huts. 
Why,  we're  in  an  Indian  village." 

"Call  Fesco,  won't  you?"  snapped  her  father.  He 
rode  the  mule.  Maisie  trudged  behind  him  on  foot. 
"Call  him,  for  I'm  thirsty,  and  the  lazy  brute's  lagging 
behind  again  with  the  water  bottle.  —  Scenery?"  he 
complained.  "May,  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  make 
you  understand  what  a  damnable  outrage  this  is  to  me." 

If  he  were  able,  she  thought,  all  cheer  might  well  take 
wing  into  gloom.  He  had  said  that  a  thousand  times, 
at  least,  until  even  a  filial,  gentle  soul  like  Maisie  vaguely 
suspected  that  his  saying  it  was  the  worst  outrage  to 
bear,  especially  when  she  was  sinking  in  weariness,  when 
she  could  almost  hear  her  baby  Alice  asking  for  her, 
when  she  wanted  so  badly  just  to  give  over  and  cry. 
To  keep  trying  to  be  buoyant  and  comforting  was  very 
hard,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  her  father  might  have 
made  it  easier  for  her. 

807 


308  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"I  may  yet,  father.  Don't  lose  hope  of  me."  She 
smiled  up  at  him,  but  a  little  bit  quizzically,  as  she  quick- 
ened her  steps  and  steadied  her  body  by  a  hand  on  his 
stirrup.  She  had  insisted  on  sharing  the  mule  with  him 
and,  as  though  to  have  an  end  of  her  clamour,  he  had 
crossly  accepted. 

Dolores  came  running  to  them,  and  spoke  a  few  words 
with  the  leader  of  their  captors,  and  they  were  taken  to 
one  of  the  huts  of  the  village.  Like  most  Yaqui  huts, 
it  was  swept  clean,  as  though  a  comb  had  passed  over  the 
earth  floor,  and  there  was  a  low  stone  corral  in  front  for 
the  household  goats  and  pigs. 

"Why,  they're  having  a  fiesta,"  exclaimed  Maisie, 
taking  a  survey  from  the  door-way.  "  You  know  father, 
it's  a  sort  of  country  fair,  only  a  Yaqui  fiesta  must  be 
different  and  especially  interesting.  Look,  I  wonder  if 
they're  having  games  over  there.  See  them  all  crowded 
round  in  a  ring.  What's  going  on  inside?  Oh  father, 
let  s  — — — 

Hacklette  caught  her  wrist.  He  exchanged  a  look  with 
Dolores.  "You  stay  here.  They  don't  want  you  in- 
truding." 

"But  —  don't  you  see,  father  —  through  that  gap  — 
pshaw,  now  it's  closed  again.  Weren't  they  funny, 
though,  all  those  old  men  squatted  round  on  the  ground 
as  solemn  as  a  —  a  spook  seance?  Look,  there's  another 
gap!  Why,  they've  got  a  little  fire,  and  a  man  seems  to 
be  stirring  it.  Now  he's  holding  the  poker  —  or  what- 
ever it  is  —  up  like  a  torch  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  they're 
packed  close  again,  and  I " 

Hacklette's  face  was  putty  white.     "Never  mind," 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  309 

he  cut  her  short.     "It's  none  of  your  business.     You  go 
inside.     I  suppose  they're  only  trying  that  fellow  - 
that  —  the  one  Dolores  said  fooled  her." 

"Oh!"  —  she  looked  pityingly  at  Dolores — "I  do 
hope  he  will  listen  to  reason.  She  looks  so  woe-begone, 
as  forsaken  and  as  —  as  a  gutter  cat.  Do  they  need 
the  fire  to  keep  warm?  .  .  .  Father,  I  can  see  the  man 
now  —  she  stabbed  him,  she  said.  That  must  be  why 
he's  lying  on  a  cot,  because  he's  wounded,  poor,  horrid 
creature.  And  that  man  who  had  the  poker,  he's  lean- 
ing over  him,  asking  him,  I  suppose,  ques 

"Maisiel"  In  the  unreasoning  anger  of  horror,  her 
father  caught  her  and  pushed  her  into  the  hut. 
But  being  himself  drawn  irresistibly,  he  ran  stumbling, 
panting,  toward  that  living  arena.  Dolores  remained 
behind,  to  look  on  the  white  woman's  face  when  the 
triumphant  time  should  come  that  she  awaited. 

Krag,  as  he  lay  with  shirt  cut  away  from  his  breast, 
saw  in  vivid  detail  flashing  pictures  that  are  common- 
place: a  little  boy  on  a  hearth  rug  with  building  blocks 
scattered  round;  a  boarding-house  table  —  some  one, 
a  man  with  eyeglasses,  asked  for  the  bread;  a  porter 
making  up  a  berth;  a  clerk  with  polka-dotted  tie  meas- 
uring off  two  yards  of  ...  Abruptly  a  noose,  a 
hundred,  his  own  muscles,  tightened  round  his  body, 
and  his  body  strained  till  it  lifted,  answering  a  magic 
touch  and  forked  tongues  of  pain. 

"Fire  meets  flesh!"  a  voice  intoned  over  him. 

A  shrivelled  hand,  that  of  the  aged  forest  elder  in  the 
council  circle,  raised  at  the  first  syllable. 

But  now  a  dispute  went  up   in   the  fringe  outside 


310  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

the  circle.  "I  saw  the  smoke  first,"  cried  a  Yaqui 
child. 

"You  did  not.     But  I  hear  it.     S-s-s,  there,  a  sizzling. 

"Of  course,"  clamoured  a  third  youngster,  "but  who 
has  the  quickest  nostril?  Wait,  who  can  smell  .  ' 

The  shrivelled  hand  of  the  patriarch  fell,  the  touch 
lifted,  and  the  white,  seared  body  relapsed  to  its  couch. 
A  face,  mottled  and  pitted,  that  of  the  elder  of  San 
Marcial,  bent  over  the  tortured  man,  putting  a  question. 
Krag's  head  rolled  on  its  pallet,  answering  the  question. 
The  elder  straightened — if  reluctantly  none  might  know 
from  his  stoic  countenance  —  and  his  voice  intoned: 

"But  the  spirit  is  rock" 

Chagre  thrust  his  machete  back  into  the  coals,  drew 
it  out,  and  went  back  to  the  litter,  again  lifting  an  edge 
of  the  serape  and  baring  a  surface  of  white  gleaming 
flesh.  It  was  then  that  Hacklette  was  crazed.  A  wildly 
agitated  intrusion  of  tailored  commonplace,  he  burst 
on  the  scene  as  from  bedlam  just  escaped.  Hands 
clutched  for  him  vainly  as  he  hurtled  through  the  fringe 
of  villagers.  The  squatted  sachem  in  his  path  toppled 
forward,  and  he  broke  the  rim  of  the  council  circle,  reel- 
ing. He  flung  himself  between  the  poised  machete  and 
the  tender  white  flesh.  "I  cain't  stand  it!  I  cain't! 
I  cain't! "  He  had  a  vision  of  Krag's  face,  of  locked  jaws, 
of  lips  and  blood-flecked  foam,  of  purpled  eyeballs.  It 
made  his  rage  and  indignation  tenfold  greater.  He 
shook  his  palsied  fists  over  the  face  on  the  pallet.  "Don't 
you  see  I  cain't  stand  it?  I  cain't!  I  cain't!" 

Krag's  set  jaws  relaxed,  and  the  lower  jaw  dropped. 
But  at  once  the  gaping  mouth  closed,  and  the  lips  curled, 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  311 

in  almost  a  smile.  If  a  sneer,  it  was  sublime.  The  lips 
moved.  "Don't  worry.  You're  —  safe  —  They'll  take  — 
you  back,  but  —  they're  —  busy  now." 

"No,  it's  this  —  thisl"  cried  Hacklette.  He  pointed 
in  a  frenzy  to  the  bared  flesh,  discoloured  by  an  angry  ? 
livid  stripe.  "Make  'em  stop!  You  got  to!  I  cain't 
stand  it.  Do  what  they  want.  Make  'em  stop.  I— 

"Chagre  —  oh,  Chagre,"  Krag's  lips  moved  faintly, 
' '  take  him  —  away . ' ' 

Until  now  the  elders  had  not  interfered.  Fesco  the 
interpreter  had  whispered  to  them  that  the  Americano 
would  only  try  to  bend  the  Lone  Oak  to  their  will. 
Chagre  seemed  not  to  hear  Krag  feebly  calling  to  him, 
though  he  stood  near  with  the  machete  ready. 

Hacklette  realized  that  they  were  going  to  be- 
gin again,  and  frantically  he  tried  to  think  out  this 
thing.  He  was  aware  of  something  fine,  and  beyond 
his  ken,  in  a  man  enduring  —  this  —  for  constancy  to 
a  woman;  for  a  woman,  moreover,  whom  he  could  hope 
never  to  see  again.  But  Hacklette's  soul  knew  nothing 
of  homage.  He  preceived  in  it  only  his  despair.  Dolores 
had  lied.  The  man  was  now  the  proof  of  that.  He 
would  never  yield,  and  Hacklette  felt  his  mind  slipping 
away.  The  craven  faced  the  unspeakable  horror  of 
going  mad.  He  must  save  himself.  He  must  stop 
them. 

Truculent  Chagre,  impatient  seemingly  to  be  back 
at  his  work,  elbowed  Hacklette  out  of  the  way,  so  closely 
indeed  that  Hacklette  felt  the  heat  of  the  machete  blade 
on  his  cheek.  He  uttered  an  incoherent  cry,  staggered 
to  the  other  side  of  the  litter,  and  bent  over  Krag. 


312  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"You  got  to  know,"  he  muttered  hoarsely,  "y°u  g°t 
to !  You  got  to  know  that  May  —  Maisie  —  that  she 
is  here.  Yes  —  don't  speak.  There  ain't  time  —  —  she's 
right  over  yonder.  Listen.  Now  you  tell  'em  she's 
your  wife.  They'll  kill  you  then,  knowing  that  —  this 
—  ain't  no  more  use.  They  got  to  stop.  I  tell  you 
I  cain't  stand  it." 

The  tortured  man,  tortured  in  what  he  just  heard 
as  he  alone  could  know,  slowly  shook  his  head.  He  could 
not  tell  them  that.  They  would  call  Maisie  to  ask  if 
it  were  true.  Maisie  would  learn  that  he  was  still  alive. 
He  shook  his  head.  No! 

Hacklette  was  infuriated.     "You  don't  understand," 
he  cried.     "  She'd  tell  them  it's  true.     Man,  man  — 
he  wavered,  but  saw  no  other  way  —   "it  is  true!     It  is, 
I  tell  you.    She  is — she  is  still  your  wife." 

Krag  looked  steadily  into  his  face.  "You  are  lying," 
he  said.  "And  —  why  let  her  know  I  am  here?  Why 
make  her  see  me  die?  Chagre,"  he  called,  "  go,  tell  the 
council  that  its  promise  to  save  this  —  the  Americano 
—  must  be  given  to  save  the  —  any  one  —  who  came 
with  him.  Go,  Chagre.  Tell  them  also  to  keep  this  — 
the  Americano  —  where  he  cannot  trouble  us.  Go, 
go." 

The  council's  hope  of  the  Americano,  and  its  patience, 
were  gone.  Two  warriors  came  and  dragged  Hack- 
lette back  into  the  crowd.  Krag  heard  his  own 
plea,  or  his  last  command,  repeated  by  Chagre,  and 
heard  their  answer.  They  agreed,  and  in  thankfulness 
he  closed  his  eyes  to  await  the  end.  Of  all  that  seemed 
hardest  to  bear  was  the  thought  that  she  was  not  to  look 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  313 

on  his  dead  face.  He  believed  he  would  surely  know, 
and  know  comfort,  if  she  did. 

Will  and  tendons  strained,  and  were  braced  against 
the  coming  of  the  touch.  He  heard  the  faint  spitting 
hiss  of  the  metal,  and  his  jaws  sank  into  their  locked 
embrace.  But  his  eyes  opened,  wide  and  wondering. 
They  opened  on  two  heads  over  him,  each  facing  the 
other,  and  two  pairs  of  eyes,  each  on  the  other;  eyes  in 
the  mottled,  pitted  face  of  the  elder  of  San  Marcial, 
incredulous,  full  of  question,  awed;  and  Chagre's  eyes, 
sullen,  defiant,  silently  menacing  the  elder.  As  in  a 
trance,  the  elder's  lips  moved: 

"Fire  meets  flesh!" 

Krag  lifted  his  head,  staring.  It  was  thrust  roughly 
back  on  the  pallet. 

"Chagre,  Chagre,"  he  moaned  in  tones  of  heart- 
rending rebuke,  "what  are  you  doing?" 

He  gathered  a  deep  breath,  to  cry  out  protest  to  the 
council.  A  corner  of  the  scrape  was  pressed  down  on 
his  face,  smothering  the  cry. 

A  murmuring  of  disappointment  rose  among  the  Ya- 
quis  around  the  circle.  They  could  not  see,  for  Chagre  was 
doing  his  work  under  a  lifted  fold  of  the  serape.  They 
had  not  looked  for  weakness  from  the  Lone  Oak.  Yet 
they  could  not  mistake  those  sobs  of  agony.  Perhaps  he 
wanted  to  yield,  but  was  Chagre  stifling  his  words 
that  he  might  prolong  the  ordeal?  The  murmuring  grew 
to  anger.  What  added  torment  was  Chagre  inflicting, 
that  their  Lone  Oak,  near  death  already  from  opening 
wounds,  should  groan  with  pain?  And  it  was  this 
unspeakable  devil,  Chagre,  who  had  healed  those  wounds ! 


314  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

It  was  this  same  Chagre,  of  distorted,  grimacing  visage, 
of  the  horrible  Death's  head  even  now  breaking  into  sweat, 
for  whom  the  Lone  Oak  was  marked  by  a  Mexican  bullet 
across  the  temple,  when  going  back  to  look  for  him  after 
a  skirmish.  They  remembered  that  the  Lone  Oak 
never  left  a  Yaqui  for  dead  until  he  saw  that  he  was 
dead,  and  that  day  the  Lone  Oak  had  saved  Chagre. 

"Chagre,  Chagre!  You  only  make  it  worse,  Chagre!" 
They  could  hear  that  rebuke  again,  terrible  as  the  an- 
guish of  the  Crucified  One  whose  lips  were  moistened  with 
vinegar. 

Yet  they  could  laugh  at  Hacklette,  going  mad.  This 
white  man  repaid  them.  The  Yaquis  round  him  made 
merry.  "Eh,  Senor  Americano,  thy  soul  hath  a  weak 
stomach!"  They  hoisted  him  up,  so  that  he  must  see. 
He  turned  his  head,  covered  his  eyes,  but  looked  again, 
enthralled  by  the  hideous  fascination.  He  mumbled 
to  himself,  clutching  at  Reason.  "It  cain't  be,  it  cain't 
be!  It's  too  outrageous.  No,  no,  it  cain't  be!"  His 
eyes  were  becoming  glassy.  His  words  fell  away  to 
noiseless  mouthing.  As  though  the  crazed  mind  gath- 
ered demoniac  strength  from  terror,  he  burst  into  a  shriek 
—  "Maude!" 

She  heard.  But  nothing  except  intuition  could  have 
made  her  know  that  the  horrid  screech  was  her  father's 
voice.  She  was  inside  the  hut,  unsuspecting,  talking 
to  Dolores  near  the  door.  It  came  over  her  in  an  instant 
that  her  father  was  being  torn  limb  from  limb.  Dolores 
would  have  stopped  her,  but  before  Dolores  knew,  she 
was  outside  and  running  like  a  deer  toward  the  Yaquis. 

She  caught  glimpses  of  her  father's  face.     It  was  a 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  315 

spectral  face  above  the  tawny  throng.  He  was  wildly 
gesticulating  to  her.  She  saw  that  he  was  not  being 
harmed,  nor  threatened,  yet  something  terrible  must 
have  happened,  or  was  happening.  Then,  when  she  had 
almost  joined  him,  he  seemed  to  wave  her  away,  and 
she  half  stopped,  bewildered,  not  understanding.  But 
he  waved  his  arm  yet  more  frantically,  and  his  lips 
worked  speechlessly.  He  was  waving  her  past  him  — 
where? 

The  Yaquis  understood  before  she  did.  The  elder  pre- 
siding over  the  council  saw  her  coming  and  sent  a  warrior 
to  hold  her.  Dolores  was  running  to  overtake  her.  But 
the  nearest  Yaquis  crowded  round.  They  kept  Dolores 
from  her.  They  kept  the  council's  messenger  from  her. 
Their  murmuring  centred  here  on  something  definite. 
Their  wrath  became  coherent.  They  would  have  swept 
away  the  council  itself  and  every  grayhead  there.  Maisie 
saw  a  path  opening  before  her,  a  path  to  an  open  space 
hedged  round  by  squatting  old  men.  In  the  open  space 
were  two  men  leaning  over  a  blanket-covered  form  on  a 
litter.  She  looked  back  at  her  father.  His  gesture  was 
frenzy  itself;  he  waved  her  on.  She  knew  only  that  her 
father  was  going  insane,  and  to  humour  him  she  must 
do  as  he  said. 

Still  looking  back  at  him,  to  be  certain  that  she  was 
doing  as  he  wanted,  and  seeing  him  wildly  nod  his  head, 
she  kept  on,  like  one  in  sleep.  Chagre  stood  aside,  drop- 
ping a  machete,  and  hastily  thrust  his  left  hand  in  his 
blouse.  The  other  man,  the  elder  of  San  Marcial,  stepped 
back.  Still  her  father  waved  his  hand.  He  must  mean 
the  figure  on  the  cot.  She  went  and  stood  beside  the 


316  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

cot.  Mechanically  she  turned  back  a  corner  of  the 
serape  —  a  still,  white  face,  rugged,  serene;  carved, 
it  seemed,  in  marble! 

Men  breathed  while  she  looked,  it  seemed  so  long; 
so  long  while  the  blood  left  her  cheeks,  and  the  pain 
of  joy  and  grief  widened  her  eyes;  and  long,  too,  as  she 
sank  to  her  knees,  and  laid  her  face  against  his  face,  and 
her  lips  to  his  lips,  and  as  she  sobbed:  "My  darling  .  .  . 
My  darling!" 

He  lay  unconscious,  and  she  in  her  unutterable  tender- 
ness was  oblivious  of  all  the  world,  and  then  it  was  that 
Coyote  —  the  chief  —  Tetibite  —  rode  into  the  village. 

Straight  among  them  he  rode,  this  fierce  and  barbaric 
war  lord  of  the  Yaquis.  He  was  superbly  mounted. 
He  was  dazzling  in  charro  splendour.  Instead  of 
a  Mexican  army  at  his  heels,  he  brought  a  ban- 
ished people  to  their  homes.  They  were  the  Yaqui 
pacificos,  the  women,  children,  and  feeble  men  who 
had  been  captured  by  Mexicans  and  condemned  to 
Yucatan.  Yet  here  they  were,  restored  to  their  tribe 
and  kin.  The  village's  amazement  changed  to  rapture. 
Sons  and  daughters,  brothers  and  sisters,  here  a  father, 
there  a  mother^  flocked  around  the  banished  ones,  ming- 
ling shouts  of  rejoicing. 

The  young  chief  understood  instantly  the  scene  he 
interrupted.  He  had  been  hearing  news  on  his  way 
hither  of  charges  against  the  Lone  Oak,  against  himself, 
of  two  white  captives,  of  all  the  treacherous  mischief 
set  on  foot  by  the  catamount  Dolores.  A  glance  at  the 
council  circle,  at  the  prostrate  form  on  the  litter,  and 
the  sobbing  woman,  a  few  words  from  the  warriors 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  317 

crowded  about  his  horse's  head,  these  were  enough.  The 
cold  glitter  lay  deadly  and  still  and  viper-like  in  his 
eyes. 

"I  am  hungry,"  he  cried  in  lordly  insolence.  "Let 
these  old  men  tend  the  pots  and  kettles.  Hereafter 
they  who  do  the  fighting  will  do  the  talking."  He 
swerved  his  horse,  a  vicious,  fiery  mustang,  and  scattered 
the  elders  headlong  before  the  dancing  hoofs.  Much  of 
hoary  dignity  sulked  in  the  huts  the  rest  of  that  day. 

Riding  thus  into  the  council  circle,  the  war  lord  of  the 
Yaquis  leaped  to  the  ground  beside  the  litter  and  its 
burden,  and  raised  his  hand,  and  the  tribe  gathered 
round  him.  He  bared  his  white  teeth  as  he  spoke, 
and  the  glittering  viper  eyes  held  every  Yaqui  there. 

He  had  gone  to  the  enemy's  capital  city,  he  said, 
neither  as  prisoner  nor  guest.  As  victor  he  had  gone. 
To  his  enemy's  teeth  he  had  said  what  the  Yaquis  must 
have.  He  had  spoken  as  the  Lone  Oak  had  counselled 
him  to  speak.  To  the  president  in  his  palace  he  had 
spoken.  Let  the  tribe  say,  then,  if  it  would  have,  or 
would  not  have,  the  peace  he  brought.  He  brought 
them  their  valley,  their  sierra,  their  homes.  He  brought 
them  farms,  grazing  lands,  metal-bearing  ledges,  hunting 
grounds.  He  brought  them  all  they  fought  for,  and  more. 
If  they  wanted  that  for  which  they  fought,  let  them  take 
it.  If  their  enemy  did  not  keep  faith,  they  could  always 
fight  again.  But  as  sign  of  the  Mexican's  faith,  he 
brought  the  banished  kinsmen.  While  whips  cracked 
over  them,  while  they  were  going  into  the  slave-ships, 
the  president's  word  came  and  changed  all  that.  But  if 
the  tribe  wanted  nothing  of  peace,  then  must  farewells 


318  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

be  said,  for  each  banished  one  had  pledged  his  honour 
to  return  if  there  were  no  peace. 

The  whining  of  old  men?  He  answered  the  whining  of 
old  men  as  chief.  He  answered  with  a  beaten  foe.  He 
answered  with  the  fruit  of  victory.  He  answered  with 
what,  since  the  first  Spaniard,  other  chiefs  had  fought 
for  and  had  not  won.  He,  Tetibite,  was  not  greater 
than  those  great  chieftains  before  him.  The  tribe 
he  led  was  less  than  the  tribe  they  had  led.  Yet  he 
had  won!  But  why  had  he  won?  He  laid  his  hand  on 
the  body  of  the  unconscious,  wounded,  tortured  man. 
Like  that,  he  said,  Yaquis  thanked  him  who  showed 
them  how  to  win. 

His  hand  raised.  He  would  not  hear  murmuring 
protest.  He  went  on.  There  was  lamentation  because 
of  a  mine,  he  had  heard.  But  the  mine  was  the  Lone 
Oak's  own.  The  mine  was  the  Lone  Oak's  because  the 
Lone  Oak  had  found  it.  The  mine  had  been  lost  to  the 
tribe,  but  the  Lone  Oak  found  it  again.  The  Lone  Oak 
gave  the  mine  to  the  saving  of  the  tribe,  and  they 
grudged  him  a  few  sacks  of  the  ore  for  his  wife  and  child 
who  had  been  robbed.  But  the  Lone  Oak  meant  to 
give  the  mine  to  the  tribe  when  peace  should  come. 
He  meant  to  care  for  it  for  them  so  that  the  white  men 
of  the  Great  Stack  would  not  cheat  them;  and  thus  he 
meant  to  dwell  among  them  as  their  physician  always. 

"And  the  Lone  Oak  told  me,"  said  the  chief,  "to  go 
to  the  books  of  the  Mexicans,  when  I  might  do  so  be- 
cause of  the  new  peace,  and  take  the  papers  he  gave  me, 
and  ask  the  Mexicans  to  write  down  the  mine  in  their 
books  in  the  name  of  the  Tribe  of  the  Yaquis,  so  I ' 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  319 

"No,  no,  rose  an  old,  strident  voice  from  the  throng, 
"the  mine  is  the  Lone  Oak's  own.  Let  it  then  be  in 
his  name." 

The  tribe  was  a  troubled  sea,  and  looking  over  his 
people  whence  the  voice  came,  the  chief  saw  that  the 
speaker  was  the  elder  of  Chihuitl.  His  words  might  have 
been  a  signal,  for  they  were  echoed  turbulently.' 

Coyote's  tongue,  the  bright  red  tip  of  Ms  tongue, 
darted  out  and  touched  his  coppery  lips.  "Thou  withered 
fool  — "he  pointed  a  lean  finger  at  the  elder  —  "keep 
to  thy  pots  and  kettles."  Then  they  knew  that  the 
Veto,  Negra  was  written  already  in  the  Lone  Oak's  name, 
in  his  name  of  an  American  of  the  North,  and  that  the 
chief  had  had  it  written  so. 

The  form  on  the  litter  lay  as  the  dead.  The 
woman  kneeling  there,  covering  the  still  face  with 
her  own,  gave  no  heed  to  those  around  her,  even 
when  her  father  came  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet  and 
led  her  away,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands  against 
his  shoulder.  Until  now  the  Yaqui  chief  had  kept  from 
him,  by  a  savage's  will,  the  thought  of  his  friend  lying 
there  dead.  The  Indian  in  him  shunned  the  recog- 
nition of  that  thing.  He  feared  to  give  it  voice,  fearing 
his  voice  must  quaver.  But  when  he  saw  the 
futile  relenting  about  him,  a  tide  of  anger  swept  grief 
with  it. 

"What  good  now,  what  good  now,"  he  cried,  "when 
ye  have  killed  him?" 

Chagre,  his  left  hand  in  his  blouse  as  though  clasping 
a  weapon,  confronted  the  chief.  "You  do  not  know  he 
is  dead,"  he  said. 


320  TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG 

"Chagre!"  The  chief  raised  his  hand  to  strike. 
"But  thou  knowest.  Thou " 

Sullen  voices  grumbled  in  the  throng.  "It  was 
Chagre,"  they  muttered,  "Chagre,  who  held  the 
machete!  Chagre,  who  killed  him!"  They  clamoured 
for  Chagre's  blood,  all  except  the  elder  of  San  Mar- 
cial,  who  only  stood  and  gazed,  inscrutably,  at  the  im- 
perilled Chagre. 

"You  do  not  know  that  he  is  dead,"  Chagre  repeated, 
his  beads  of  eyes  deep  and  evil  in  their  sockets. 

They  would  have  struck  him  down  had  not  the 
accents  of  murder  beat  upon  the  walls  of  the  tomb.  Krag's 
eyes  opened.  He  awakened  from  that  swoon-like  death. 
"Chagre"  had  been  the  moan  on  his  lips  as  he  sank  under 
the  waters.  "Chagre"  was  the  questioning  plaint  when 
he  rose  again.  Above  him  he  saw  Chagre's  face,  and  a 
clenched  fist  raised  over  it  for  the  first  blow. 

Krag's  arm  lifted  waveringly  from  his  side.  Lines 
of  pain  between  his  eyes  showed  the  force  of  will  that  was 
needed.  This  time  no  rough  hand  thrust  him  back, 
and  his  own  hand  fell  on  Chagre's  left  wrist  and  drew 
Chagre's  left  hand  from  his  blouse.  The  chief  looked. 
Those  nearest  looked.  The  eyes  of  all  who  might  see 
were  fixed  on  Chagre's  left  hand.  The  fingers  of  that 
hand  were  seared  to  the  bone,  where  hot  steel  had  lain 
across  them. 

A  cold  light  grew  in  the  black  pupils  of  Coyote's  eyes. 
It  was  jealousy,  like  that  which  had  inspired  his  lie  to 
Krag.  This  jealousy  was  murderous,  because  another 
than  himself  was  given  the  chance  to  do  for  the  Lone 
Oak  what  Chagre  had  done.  He  heard  the  murmuring 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  KRAG  321 

that  exalted  Chagre.  Chagre's  act  was  a  Yaqui  act, 
and  they  exalted  that.  Their  chief  would  be  first  in  that. 

"Be  proud,  ay,  be  proud,  Chagre,"  said  the  chief, 
"and  I  call  thee  brother,  but — keep  thyself  far  from  me." 

Some  one  led  to  Coyote  a  child,  a  naked,  satin-skinned, 
two-year-old  willow  of  manhood.  It  was  the  Americano, 
the  man  Hacklette,  who  led  the  child.  The  Yaqui  chief 
stooped  until  he  looked  into  a  pair  of  little,  round,  bright, 
lustrous  black  eyes.  Every  grandam  there,  and  even  the 
men,  were  caught  by  the  same  thought;  their  chief  was 
gazing  on  himself.  The  resemblance  had  caught 
Hacklette  already.  There  was  no  mistaking — those  eyes, 
the  lean  skull,  the  straight  body  —  a  splinter  off  the  same 
arrow — the  timber  wolf's  own  cub.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking Coyote's  salutation:  "Hail,  the  little  chief!" 
No  mistaking  the  way  he  gathered  the  warm  little  body 
of  copper  to  him ! 

Dolores,  all  fierceness  and  snarls  and  claws,  would 
have  snatched  the  child  away,  but  Coyote  rose  and 
caught  both  her  w.ists  under  the  fingers  of  one  hand. 
He  laughed  gleefully,  wickedly. 

"My  mountain  cat,"  he  cried,  bending  her  to  him, 
while  high  on  his  shoulder  he  poised  the  boy.  "My 
mountain  cat,  mine  to  tame!  And  I  was  afraid,"  he 
laughed,  "of  growing  sluggish  in  the  fat  days  of  peace!" 

Maisie  saw,  but  gave  it  no  heed.  Krag  slept,  or  had 
swooned  again,  and  she  had  crept  again  to  his  pillow. 
Suddenly  an  awed,  whispered  cry  thrilled  her. 

"The   angels     ...     No,    Maisie!" 

Jim's  eyes  were  open. 


A     000124346 


